


Someone Else

by tuppenny



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss of Parent(s), Minor Violence, Sibling Death, Swearing, but there's a happy ending I promise, stuff gets dark in Chapter 7 so just like be forewarned, you know your own tolerance level for heartbreak... use your best judgment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 18:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuppenny/pseuds/tuppenny
Summary: Soulmates AU with the whole 'whatever you write on yourself appears on your soulmate's skin' thing, with slight modifications





	1. Chapter 1

As a child, Jack Kelly had delighted in asking his parents to doodle on their skin. He’d rush from one parent to the other, watching the ink on his mother’s arm disappear and gazing in awe as her even handwriting reappeared on his father’s burly arm instead. He knew that this was something parents could do; parents were soulmates, and soulmates communicated through skin and ink.

He was disappointed at first when he realized that the things he wrote on his own skin never duplicated themselves on either of his parents—wasn’t his mother always saying that he was her heart and soul? But she comforted him by saying that he was so much a part of her that any time he wrote on himself it was as good as writing on her, too.

“Mothers don’t need ink to find their children, darling. You’re my own dear boy, and whenever you need me, I feel it in my bones.”

“But my bones don’t feel when you need me,” he complained. “I know Papa’s your soulmate, but if I’m your soul, why can’t you send messages to me like you do Papa?”

“Your soulmate will be someone outside of our family, Jack,” she explained gently. 

“But I don’t want anyone else,” he said, frowning. “I don’t need anyone but you.” 

“You’ll feel differently when you’re older,” she said, stroking his cheek.

“I won’t!”

“That’s fine,” she said. “You don’t have to. It’s alright if you do, though, and then—” 

“I said I _won’t_!” His eyes glistened with fierce tears. “I won’t, I _won’t_! Aren’t you listening?”

“I’m sorry, darling. It’s okay.” She pulled him up into her lap and cradled him close. And he let her, even though he’d decided that now that he was nearly five he was really much too big and grown-up for this sort of thing. But he thought this must be one of those times when his bones ought to be feeling that she needed him, so he snuggled in close. He was doing this as a favor to his mother, he told himself; no reason to admit that he found this embrace comforting, too, that he wanted her arms around him as a shield against growing up and a barrier against a world full of people who weren’t family. 

He curled himself up tightly against her chest and hid his face in the folds of her blouse, hot tears running down his cheeks. “Don’t make me go, Mama, don’t make me find a soulmate!”

“Shhhh, macushla,” she said, stroking his head and rocking him from side to side. “I won’t ever do that, Jackie. You never have to leave me. I’ll never make you go.”

“Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

 

*

 

It was a while before he plucked up the courage to ask about soulmates again. The kids at school talked about it sometimes; the ones who still had two living parents were just as frustrated as Jack was at being able to see their parents write messages and yet unable to do it themselves.

“Why don’t it _work_ , Mama?” Jack asked, scuffing his shoes on the pavement as he accompanied his mother to the butcher’s. “I keeps drawin’ on myself, but it just stays there. ‘M I broken?” 

“Why _doesn’t_ it work,” she said, suppressing a smile. “And you’re not broken. It’ll work when you get older.”

“How?”

“Anything you write on your skin will appear on your soulmate, just like it does for Papa and me. It'll happen once you're old enough; you just have to be patient. In the meantime, you keep drawing—I love your beautiful pictures, darling. I’m glad they don’t end up on my skin—I’d never be able to bathe again for fear of washing them away.”

Jack perked up. “Does that mean I don’t have to take a bath this week?”

His mother laughed. “You still need to take your bath, but if you do that without complaining from now until July, how about I promise to get you a sketchbook for your birthday?” 

His eyes grew wide. “Really?” 

“Really. But only if you don’t complain about bathtime for the next four months,” she cautioned.

“Deal.” He spat in his hand and extended it to his mother.

She laughed again. “I swear, you get more and more like your father every day.” She spat in her hand and completed the handshake. “You’re growing up so fast, darling-- soon you’ll be a man, and you’ll spend all your time writing messages on your skin to some pretty girl.” 

Jack grimaced. “No, I won’t. Girls is stinky.” 

“ _Are_ stinky,” she corrected. “And I’m a girl, you know. Am I stinky, too?” 

“You ain’t a girl,” Jack said, tutting at his mother’s ignorance. “You’re a mother. 'S not the same thing at all.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, I used to be a girl, and I can tell you for sure that girls aren’t stinky. In fact, a lot of them are very nice.”

He looked at her skeptically. His mother wouldn’t lie to him, but this information was straining his credulity. “Maybe,” he said. He thought for a minute. “I guess Niamh’s a girl,” he offered, naming his favorite playmate, the little girl from the one-room tenement apartment next door.

“That’s right,” his mother said.

“An’ she don’t smell.” 

“No, she doesn’t.” 

“Hmm.” Jack was going to have to think about this one. In the meantime, he reached out to hold his mother’s hand. He had to make sure she made it safely to the butcher’s, after all. He was her little man, and it was his job to protect her.

 

*

 

The last conversation about soulmates that Jack ever had with his mother took place when he was six. She was already sick then, although Jack wasn’t aware of how badly. Everyone had a cough in the winter; nothing worth getting worked up over, not when there were bills to pay and mouths to feed and work to be done. This cough would turn out to be different, of course, but the only one who could possibly have realized that so early was Eileen Kelly herself, and if she knew, she wasn’t telling.

Jack looked up from his copybook and watched his mother at her piecework. He knew better than to interrupt her focus; the work paid poorly and by the piece, so she needed to finish as many as possible if they were to eat that night. But this was important. “Mama, how old were you when you met Papa?”

“Eighteen,” she said, snapping off some finished threads with her teeth.

“So that’s when the words start showin’ up?” 

“No,” she said, reaching for the next swatch of fabric. “It started at fifteen for me. It’s different for everyone, though.”

Jack sat for a moment, trying to do the math in his head. He soon gave up and decided to count on his fingers.

“So it took you three years to find Papa?”

“Mhmm,” she said, sticking some extra pins in her mouth.

“That’s a long time,” he said, swinging his feet back and forth under the table. “I don’t wanna wait that long. Soon’s I’m fifteen, I’m gonna write, ‘Hello soulmate. This is Jack Kelly. I live with Mama and Papa in the apartment next to Niamh O’Malley. Come visit.’”

To his surprise, his mother shook her head violently back and forth and reached a hand across the table to clamp it over his wrist. “You mustn’t ever do that, darling. Promise me?” 

“Why not?” 

“Because it’ll hurt you, Jack. If you try to give your soulmate any information that would let them find you before you meet naturally-- your name, where you are, where you go to school, what kind of work you do-- anything specific, darling, anything at all, the message won’t send. And instead of sending, it will hurt you. Badly.”

Jack pursed his lips and kicked a chubby leg against the table. “How badly?”

“You remember Mr. Scott from down the street?”

Jack shuddered. Mr. Scott was one of the many drunks who lived in the neighborhood, and last summer he’d stumbled out in front of a large dray horse pulling a fully loaded ice cart behind it. The sound of the man’s screams had haunted Jack for weeks. Mr. Scott was a beggar now; his mangled legs made him unfit for work. Jack brought Mr. Scott apples sometimes, hurriedly thrusting them into the man’s outstretched hands before running away, but usually he took an alternate route to school these days. He simply couldn’t bear the sight of the man sitting there on the sidewalk, broken beyond repair.

His mother lifted and held his chin so that he had to look her in the eyes. “It'll make you scream like that, Jack. So promise me you won’t ever try it.”

Jack wriggled, trying to escape her grasp. This had gotten much more serious than he wanted. His mother was always so gentle; it scared him when she went all firm like this. 

“Jack.” She gripped harder.   

“I promise,” he whined, using his petulance to cover up his fear.

She scanned his face a moment longer, then nodded and released him. “Good. You’ll find your soulmate when you’re meant to, sweetie. There’s no need to rush it.” She placed her piecework down and motioned to him to come over, wrapping him in a tight hug. She laid her head atop his and rubbed his back. “You’ll find someone someday, macushla. Don’t you worry. And if it takes a while, then it’s not because there’s anything wrong with you—it’s just because whoever you’re waiting for is going to need an awful lot of time to grow into someone wonderful enough to deserve you.”

Jack nodded into her shoulder, savoring the smell of fresh soap and sage and _home_ that always clung to his mother. “I promise,” he said again. 

She kissed the top of his head and then pushed him away suddenly so that she could cough into her hand. Jack frowned at the noise, a dry, racking shudder that didn’t fit with his image of her at all. She looked up to see his eyes narrowed, his concern writ plain. “I’m fine, love.” She smiled and patted him on the back, pushing him gently back to the bench on the other side of the table. “Now scoot and finish up that homework. You’re a smart boy, Jack, and I want you putting those smarts to good use.” 

“Yes, Mama,” he said, climbing back onto the bench and reopening his copybook. He sighed. He’d much rather be drawing than practicing spelling words, but the last time he’d handed in a page of pictures instead of a page of properly punctuated sentences, he’d gotten a paddling in front of the class. He wasn’t eager to repeat that experience, so spelling it was. “Paper. P… a…” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which little Jack leaves home for somewhere else.

By the time Jack was eight, he was an orphan, and idle schoolyard chatter about soulmates was a thing of the past. So was the schoolyard, for that matter. And living in the apartment next to Niamh O’Malley. And giving apples to Mr. Scott.

The O’Malleys had taken him in for a while after his father’s death, but when Mr. O’Malley lost his job and money and food got tight, they’d told him in no uncertain terms that he had to go. 

“Go where?” Jack asked.

“Wherever you wants,” Mr. O’Malley said gruffly, pushing the apartment door closed. “Anywhere but here.”

Jack’s eyes met Niamh’s as the door swung shut, and she opened her mouth to speak. But the lock clicked, her voice was soft, and he never saw her again. 

 _Anywhere I want. I can go anywhere I want, ‘s long as it ain’t here._ He curled his fingers around the buttered roll in his pocket, a parting gift from Mrs. O’Malley, and headed downstairs. Going anywhere he wanted didn’t sound so bad, and if only he’d had the money for food, he wouldn’t have been at all sorry to leave the O’Malleys. Mr. O’Malley had started drinking more and more since he’d lost his job, and Jack, not being family, bore the brunt of that. 

 _Alright, then, where do I wanna go?_ Jack set off down the street he’d lived on all his life and swore that once he turned the corner, he’d never set foot on it again. He was going to go to a place he wanted to go to, and that sure as hell wasn’t here. But where did he want to go? The docks? The river? The park? The rail yard? _The rail yard._ _Yes._ Trains took you anywhere and everywhere, and, best of all, they went _away_. Far, far away, to a place he wanted to be. He wasn’t sure where that place was yet, but he was sure he’d know it when he saw it. He’d head to the rail yards, hide away in a boxcar, and hop off the train as soon as he found a place that looked like the sort of place that he might like. The sort of place that might like him back. 

He wasn’t sure where the rail yard was, though, and when he asked people for help they gave him complicated directions that slipped out of his head as soon as he’d walked a few blocks. It was hard to remember directions when there were so many people to look at, so many crooked noses and cauliflower ears and stooped backs and ragged shawls to remember. He wanted to draw them all, to draw them in the places they wanted to be—he’d draw somewhere warm for the lady wearing a wool coat even though it was August, somewhere quiet for the careworn mother and the baby squalling in her arms, somewhere full of adventure for the little boys chasing each other up and down the tenement steps.

But for himself? He wasn’t sure. He tried to think of the landscape he belonged in, the buildings and trees and people he would gladly call his own, but nothing fit. This whole damn _city_ didn’t fit. They said you could see the whole world here, that there wasn’t a thing you could ask for that this city didn’t have, but Jack was pretty sure that was a lie. And if it wasn’t, then he’d go live on the moon, because this city stank. And he was getting out.

He wandered like this for a while, trudging up streets and down streets, kicking rocks and dodging wagons and glaring at anyone who got in his way. No sign of the trains, though, and when he was still walking come nightfall, he realized that he was thoroughly lost and thoroughly alone. He felt his chest squeeze a little bit, but he bit lightly on his tongue and redirected his attention to that. He was fine, he was fine, he was fine—he’d done what Mr. O’Malley had said, he was finding a place that was anywhere but here, and he was smart, his mama said so, she’d said he was smart enough to do just about anything, and he was brave, his papa said so, he’d said Jack was the bravest boy in the family because he hadn’t broken when his mama died. 

No, Jack hadn't broken, he'd stayed tough and stayed alive and even when Stephen beat his son, sobbing with want for Eileen and anger at Jack for looking vaguely like her and for surviving and for needing things and for loving Stephen despite the shouting and the smacking and the swearing, Jack had stayed strong and stubborn and true and _fine_. He was fine. He was always fine.

He spotted a promising bench in a park across the street—a rare sight in crowded, dirty, squalid Lower Manhattan—and jogged towards it. His feet hurt, and his bread roll had gotten squashed and smeared butter all over the inside of his pocket, and he felt tears pricking his eyes because if his mama were here she’d pull him onto her lap and rock him and hum until he felt better, and maybe she’d write a note on her wrist to his papa and ask him to bring home a piece of penny candy for Jack, and he’d be warm and safe and loved and… _No. You’s going anywhere but here—I mean there—and you’s smart and brave and_ fine _. You’s fine. This is fine._

He hopped onto the bench and debated about whether or not to eat his roll right then and there. His stomach rumbled, but Jack rolled his eyes. “Nice try,” he muttered. His body couldn’t fool him—he knew that growl was more for show than anything else. His stomach might think it wanted food, but Jack knew from experience that he could hold out another day or two before he truly needed to eat. So that’s what he’d do. Save it until he had no choice but to eat it. Besides, maybe by then he’d have found the somewhere he wanted to be, somewhere with open sky and plenty of food and a soft place to sleep.

He slipped off his shoes and tied the laces around his wrists so that no one would steal them without him knowing. Then he curled over onto his side and clutched his shoes to his chest so as to fool himself into thinking he wasn’t sleeping alone. The shoes weren’t comfortable to hug, he thought, but that actually kind of helped. His mama had gotten awfully bony at the end, and Niamh was mostly sharp angles, too, even though she didn’t mean to be. It was hard to be soft when you had almost nothing to eat. 

His stomach rumbled again, and he shushed it. “Shaddap, stomach. You ain’t hungry, an’ we both knows it. ‘Sides, ‘s bedtime, not dinnertime. Simmer down.” He shifted and angled the toes of his shoes into his abdomen, hoping the pressure would distract him from the gnawing feeling that was keeping him awake. It helped somewhat, and Jack smiled, his eyes drooping closed. He hummed softly, lulling himself to sleep with an Irish lullaby, and drifted off.  

He was so exhausted that, despite his still-protesting stomach, he was too sound asleep to hear the deep laugh of a man who, having spotted Jack alone on the bench, was drawing ever closer. He was so exhausted that he didn’t even stir when the man pulled Jack’s arms out from his chest to snap handcuffs on them. He was so exhausted that it wasn’t until the man shoved him upright and gave him a little shake that he finally woke up and began to realize that something wasn’t right. 

He blinked once, twice, registered the man standing right in front of him and the cold metal handcuffs weighing down his wrists, and shot upright. “Hey! Whaddya think you's doin', cuffin' me!” 

“You’re loiterin’ in a public park,” the man said. “So I’m takin’ you ta get what you deserve.”

“Sleepin’ ain’t a crime!” Jack protested. “An’ I’s leavin’ the city, anyways, just lemme go an’ I promise I ain’t gonna be loiterin’ nowheres ever again!”

“Sleepin’ in a public park is loiterin’, an’ that’s a crime,” the man said triumphantly. “You aren’t leavin’ this city, boy—no sir, the only place you’re headed is the Refuge.” 

“The what?” 

“You’ll see.”

And with that, he yanked Jack off the bench, out of the park, and back into the wretched maze of Lower Manhattan.


	3. Chapter 3

Katherine raced down the stairs in her stockinged feet. “Mother! Father! You’re back!”

The nursemaid’s frantic calls echoed down the wooden hallway. “Miss Katherine, Miss Lucy, please stop, oh, please, please stop!”

She was too far away to catch the girls, though, and, after having spent three months under the care of nursemaids and governesses and household staff, they were far too excited to see their parents to heed her calls. Lucy, being two years older, reached their parents first, skidding to a stop in front of Kate Pulitzer, who was telling the footmen where to put each suitcase, and Joseph Pulitzer, who was in the midst of receiving the butler’s detailed report about the mansion’s state of affairs. Katherine, not wanting Lucy to soak up all of their parents’ very limited attention, put on an extra burst of speed as she flew down the last few steps.

But polished cherry wood and slick silk stockings are not a good combination, and, instead of sliding to a stop in front of her parents, she found herself tripping and falling and bouncing onto the floor. Her head slammed against the ground and for a moment all she could do was lie there, stunned. Her parents spun around—at least she had their attention now—and hurried to her side. Katherine tried to smile, but when she moved her lips the pain was so searing that she burst into tears.

Kate’s eyes grew wide and her hands flew to her mouth. Joseph’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. “Mrs. Hudson!” He bellowed. “Look what you’ve done!”

The nursemaid puffed down the last few steps and froze at the sight of Katherine, blood dripping from the girl’s tiny mouth and onto the burnished floor of the foyer, a single front tooth protruding through Katherine’s delicate upper lip. “I’m so sorry, Sir, I…” Mrs. Hudson turned and retched onto the floor.

Pulitzer’s face grew even darker. “You’re fired, Hudson. Get out.”

Katherine’s eyes grew wide. Why did Mrs. Hudson have to leave? _She_ hadn’t done anything, it wasn’t _her_ fault that Katherine hated wearing shoes indoors. And why did her mouth taste so funny? And why was no one paying attention to her anymore? Tears usually did the trick, and Lord knew she was shedding plenty of them at the moment, but no one was looking at her—Hudson was sobbing and running away, her father was stalking away to the telephone, and her mother had gone white and had to be led away by two maids murmuring soothing words and holding jars of smelling salts. She was alone with Lucy again, and that was not at all what she wanted.

Should she cry louder? Maybe if she screamed? She took a deep breath to start wailing, but the movement jarred her lip and the pain grew so big that everything went black.

Katherine woke up to a throbbing pain in her mouth. It hurt more when she reached up to press her fingers against it—but wait, that wasn’t even her lip she was feeling—it was cottonballs and gauze and—maybe she didn’t even have a lip anymore? Katherine’s blood ran cold. How would she talk? How would she eat? Who would want to play with someone who had only one lip? She was going to be all alone forever now, she just knew it; even Mrs. Hudson was gone.

Tears sprang to her eyes again and she started to sob, little hiccupping chokes that devolved into snotty, gasping cries.

A sour voice sounded in her ear. “Happy now?”  

Surprised, Katherine stopped crying long enough to turn her head and see who was there. Lucy stood at the bedside, her expression as angry and sullen as a seven-year-old’s could be.

Lucy edged closer, clenching her fists and glowering at her little sister. “Thanks to your little display this morning, Mother’s taken to her bed and Father’s shut himself up in his study.”

Katherine blinked.

“They never even said hello!” Lucy’s voice broke. “You scared them away, Kitty! Why did you do it! Why couldn’t you just _wait_?”

Katherine started crying again. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry! Oh, Lucy, I’m so sorry!”

Lucy watched Katherine for a minute, tears sliding down both girls’ cheeks. Then Lucy softened and climbed up onto the bed, nestling herself next to Katherine. She pressed her lips to Katherine’s hair and laid an arm across her little sister’s chest, making soft, soothing noises as she did so. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” She patted Katherine’s shoulder and kissed the tears off her cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby, it’s okay.”

They stayed like that for a while until Katherine’s sobs slowed to little hiccups. Then she turned to face Lucy, her tear-stained face tentative and scared. “Will you still play with me, Lucy?”

Lucy cocked her head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I only have one lip.”

Lucy looked confused. “What do you mean, only one lip?”

“The other one’s gone,” Katherine said, her bottom lip quivering. “It’s only cotton there now.”

Lucy’s eyes widened and then she broke into a grin. “Silly Kitty, that’s just a bandage! The doctor sewed you up and stuck that on so you wouldn’t rip out the stitches, that’s all. You’ve got two lips, baby, it’s okay.” She patted Katherine’s shoulder again. “I’d play with you no matter how many lips you had, though,” she said. “You’re my sister, and I’ll always love you. We’ll always be together, no matter what.” 

“Really?” Katherine sniffled.

“Of course. That’s how sisters work.” 

Katherine relaxed and curled into Lucy’s side. She took a deep breath and nuzzled into Lucy’s neck. “I _am_ sorry, you know.”

Lucy sighed. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry I yelled.”

“I love you, Lucy.”

“I love you, too, Kitty.”


	4. Chapter 4

Katherine swung her patent leather boots against the table leg.

“Miss Katherine! Young ladies do not kick tables!”

Katherine groaned and flopped forward onto her desk, her arms splayed out in front of her, fingers dangling over the side of the tabletop.

“And they _certainly_ do not do _that_!” Katherine’s governess rapped Katherine’s knuckles lightly with a wooden ruler. “Sit up straight and pay attention, Miss Katherine. Learning proper soulmate communication techniques is essential to maintaining one’s place in good society.” 

“Stupid society,” Katherine mumbled under her breath. Lucy giggled.

“Young ladies enunciate, Miss Katherine,” the governess said sternly. “If you would like to contribute a thought to this lesson, then you need to speak clearly.”

“I said society is stupid,” Katherine repeated loudly. “And I don’t want to contribute a thought to this lesson, because I don’t see the point of anything you’ve said in the last hour and a half. If someone’s my soulmate, then we have to end up together no matter what. Even if I write them the wrong words in the wrong places at the wrong times, they still have to marry me, so why bother learning all this malarkey in the first place?” 

The governess glowered, and Lucy tried even harder not to laugh. Lessons were always more entertaining when she shared them with Katherine.

The governess took a deep breath and smoothed down her skirts, trying to regain some composure. “The content, location, and timing of your messages all speak to the quality of your breeding, Miss Katherine. It is imperative that you signal from the very first interaction with your soulmate that you are a young woman of class and consequence who deserves and expects to be treated according to your station. If you do not,” she said, stalking ever closer to Katherine’s little wooden desk, “You risk bringing shame on your family. Seeing as you are the daughter of a newspaper mogul, Miss Katherine, I am sure you know that people gossip, and gossip can ruin reputations and careers. Including yours. Including your family’s. So,” she continued, peering down her beaky nose, “You need to be aware that if you write risqué messages on the inside of your thigh at three in the morning, then the Pulitzer name will be dragged through the mud.”

“But why would my soulmate _tell_ anyone?” Katherine said. “He’s got to marry me, so why would he tattle on me?”

The governess gave a nasty little grin. “Because he doesn’t have to marry you.”

Katherine blanched. Lucy stopped her silent, shaking laughter. Both girls reacted as one. “ _What_?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t know that already,” the governess said, clearly not surprised at all and oh so pleased to be the bearer of bad news. Her pinched eyebrows drew even closer together and her voice grew smug. “If you prove yourself unworthy, then your soulmate is honor-bound to renounce you. No one wants to bring an ill-mannered hoyden into their family—if a dirty woman marries your son or mothers your children, then the purity of the entire family is placed in danger, as are the family’s livelihoods and futures. One bad apple spoils the bunch, as it were. Thus, unacceptable soulmates are renounced. It is the only responsible course of action.” Lucy started to sniffle, and Katherine felt her stomach go a bit funny. “So you see, Miss Katherine,” the governess continued, “Your interactions with your soulmate must be above reproach, because if they are not, then you will end up with no one and nothing.”

“But… but if they renounce you, then they’ll be alone, too,” Katherine protested.

“No,” the governess said. “They are free to marry a widow, a divorcée, someone whose soulmate died in childhood, or a lady who has had to renounce their own unsuitable soulmate. And rest assured, any one of those options is better than marrying filth.”

Katherine swallowed. “Then what happens to the person who… who got renounced? Can they marry someone else, too?”

The governess laughed. “Who would marry someone like that?” She shook her head as Katherine and Lucy exchanged frightened looks. “No, Miss Katherine—renounced women must withdraw from society and spend their days working to improve their character and atone for their impropriety. Their behavior has lost them the chance to have marriage, children, and the run of a household, and so they must content themselves with living in the background.” 

Katherine did _not_ like the sound of that. She figured that the only reason you’d ever want to get married in the first place was to escape the background. That was all marriage offered her—thoughts of love and laughter were outside the scope of her imagination—but it was enough. Once she was a married woman, her brothers would stop treating her like a little girl, and, even if they didn’t interact with her directly, then at least they would interact with her husband while she was in the room. Once she had her own children, she would always have people who loved her and listened to her and wanted to spend time with her. Once she was in charge of a home, her parents would have to acknowledge that she was grown-up and capable, and she could invite them over for dinners where they would sit at the same table and have full-length conversations.

Katherine couldn’t have cared less about whom she married; as far as she was concerned, her soulmate could be bald and buck-toothed and bandy-legged and smell like whipped cream left out on the front stoop in the height of summer. If her soulmate ended up being twenty years older, dumb as a doornail, and made a little too merry with other women, then so what? That was fine. She didn’t need to _like_ him. His heart, his mind, his appearance—all of that was utterly inconsequential. Katherine just needed him to exist, to marry her, and give her children. That was all. 

A marriage, a home, and at least one child. That’s what made you matter. That’s what made you a person. It hadn’t taken Katherine long to realize that, until she had those three things, she was just chewing scenery in the background of someone else’s play. And even at age eight, she was sick and tired of it. She needed more than what she had, and she needed it desperately, and her soulmate was the only one who could make that happen. So she straightened up in her seat, squared her shoulders, and flipped her copybook back open. Katherine Pulitzer was not going to be renounced. No way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is plenty of angst for the readers to enjoy.

Jack didn’t know who’d come up with the name 'The Refuge,' but he figured that either they were fond of cruel jokes or they were just plain stupid. As he laid on the bottom bunk and jostled for just a little more space—it was hard to cram six boys sideways onto one creaky mattress, no matter how small and underfed they were—he thought back to bedtime at home, his _real_ home, when his mother had tucked him in and read him a Psalm, helped him through his evening prayers and sung him a lullaby, kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair. _God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble_ , she’d read, and he’d believed her. _God is our refuge_. _Our refuge and strength_. Well, Jack wasn’t sure what he thought about God right now—he wasn’t sure about a lot of things, in fact—but he was sure about one thing: This place was no refuge. This place was a jail.

Weeks passed, then months, and Jack gradually settled in to the dismal, casually violent routine of the Refuge. Cold shower, meager breakfast, chores and unpaid work, unsatisfying dinner, bed, repeat. The monotony was broken up only by fights between the boys--which were bound to happen given that they were all tired and hungry and powerless--and beatings from the staff. 

Some of the adults’ brutality made sense to Jack; Georgie got clobbered for throwing his porridge at Snyder, Frankie got the rod for whaling on a couple of younger kids and breaking their arms so they couldn’t work. Most of it seemed arbitrary, though. Making eye contact with the wrong person, sneezing at the wrong time, standing the wrong way or finishing a meal too quickly—he was never sure what would set someone off. Some of the things you did that bothered Mr. Fisher were things that Mr. Miller would sock you for _not_ doing, and Mr. Harris would swing back and forth depending on the day.

And Snyder? Snyder was completely unpredictable. It hadn’t taken Jack long to realize that Snyder would make things up just so he could hit you, and that made Jack’s blood boil. It wasn’t that he had a problem with getting roughed up; it wasn't that at all. Jack didn’t like getting hurt, not like Louie, who laughed and cooed every time someone punched him, but he didn’t resent getting knocked around as long as he deserved it. If he deserved it then it was okay. It hurt, sure, but it was fair. It was right. As long as he deserved it, he could take it. And he deserved it more than most, he knew. His papa had told him that he’d gotten more and more unmanageable ever since his mother died, and sometimes you had to give unmanageable kids a smack or two in order to keep them in line. It was for their own good. His papa said so. 

Snyder, though—Snyder would rip you a new one just for the heck of it. And that wasn’t any sort of fair.

He thought sometimes that it would have been easier if he’d had someone to help him bear the weight, but he didn’t. And he couldn’t look for anyone, either, because as much as Jack wanted to make friends with the other boys, to find some sort of safety in a quick smile, a pat on the back, in hugging them close at night like he had with Niamh, he knew that if he made friends, then the adults—particularly Snyder—would hurt them when Jack did something wrong. Jack hadn’t done much to make the adults mad yet, true, but he knew it was only a matter of time. He was a troublemaker. He was unmanageable. He was unmanageable, and so it was best for him to lie low and keep himself to himself.

He was doing a pretty good job of that, too, of growing smaller and quieter, of turning inwards, ever inwards, of averting his eyes and forgetting who he’d been before, but then Charlie came. And Charlie changed everything.

Charlie wasn’t much younger than Jack, but he was a lot shorter on account of a bad bout with polio. And even though the kid had moxie enough for someone twice his size, his weakened leg was constantly putting him at the mercy of Snyder and Fisher and the rest. Jack just watched at first; new kids got it worst, and that’s just how it was. But when he noticed that Charlie was still getting it, day in and day out, even though Charlie wasn’t new and Charlie wasn’t unmanageable, Jack snapped.

Jack kept close tabs on everyone and everything that happened in the Refuge, and as a result he was absolutely sure that Charlie had paid his dues, that Charlie was a good kid, and that the staff had broken the unwritten rules of the Refuge by continuing to beat him up every single day. Seeing Charlie limp to bed, his pale face bruised purple and green, Jack felt a stone settle in his stomach the way it always had before he got involved in a schoolyard brawl. And that was that. That was the signal. Jack couldn’t let this stand. He was going to have to settle this with his fists.

The next time Snyder laid a hand on Charlie, Jack ran over, shoved Charlie out of the way, and tackled Snyder around the knees. The portly man fell backwards onto the ground, stunned by the sudden attack, and Jack took advantage of the man’s temporary inertia to scream and kick and punch the man everywhere he could. He knew he was going to get hell for this as soon as Snyder gathered himself or one of the other men came to help, but right now he didn’t care, because they’d broken the rules and that meant they deserved this because Charlie was good, he was _good_ , Jack could tell just by looking at him that he wasn’t anything like Jack, he was good and kind and deserved so much better than what he’d gotten and if those men couldn’t see it then Jack would make them see, he would, he _would_ , and he’d make them hurt, he’d make them scream, he’d make them bleed. 

And Jack’s eyes were alight and his heart was singing because finally, _finally_ he was sinking his shoes into Snyder’s soft stomach, bruising his knuckles on Snyder’s jowly face, pummeling the man with everything he had, howling aloud with fury and righteousness and loss. It felt endless to Jack, it felt like the whole world had collapsed into this moment, and there wasn’t anything beyond the blood and the yells and heaven help him but this felt _good_ and he wanted _more_ and then there were hands yanking him backwards and pulling him upwards and he thrashed and screamed and bit and slapped and then his head snapped back and he was out.

 

*

 

“Ya awake?” 

Jack groaned. Everything hurt. He tried to open his eyes to see who’d asked him that question—he thought it was a question, at least, but maybe he’d invented it, maybe they weren’t words at all, maybe it was a dream—and failed. One eye was swollen shut, and the other was stuck and he couldn’t tug it open. 

The light on the other side of his eyelids grew darker and he felt someone’s hot breath on his face. “Oh. Guess you can’t open your eyes, huh?”

Jack tried to shake his head no, but that just made everything hurt even worse. He whimpered.

“Well, I can’t get the one eye, we’s just gonna have to wait until the swellin’ goes down, but I bet I can help ya with the other, if ya wants?”

Jack mumbled something incoherent, which the other boy clearly took as a yes, because soon Jack felt wet fingers rubbing across his left eye. Crusted blood started to dissolve as the other boy gently moved his fingers back and forth, and once Jack felt the sticky seal on his eye starting to loosen, he pushed the stranger’s hand away and handled the rest of the blood himself. Jack’s eyelid fluttered open and shut as he tried to adjust to the sudden influx of light and focus on the backlit figure in front of him, and even that small motion hurt a little. 

“Thanks,” Jack croaked, still not sure whom he was thanking.

“I oughta be thankin’ you,” the boy said. “They’s been beatin’ me up somethin’ awful, an’ no one done a thing about it ‘fore now.”

“Charlie?” Jack asked, squinting.

“Yeah,” the boy said. “You’s Kelly, right?”

Jack grunted a confirmation.

“That’s all I know, though,” continued Charlie. “I ain’t never heard ‘em use your first name. They ain’t never had call to use it, ‘cause I gotta say, Kelly, you’s pretty good at stayin’ quiet.” Charlie looked Jack up and down, taking in Jack’s bruises and scrapes. “Well, you _was_ good at stayin’ quiet. Not so much no more, I guess. Why’d you do it?”

Jack tried to shrug and winced. “Weren’t fair,” he offered. 

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s a dumb reason. Ain’t none of this fair.”

“Next time I won’t bother, then,” Jack spat.

Charlie held up his hands. “Hey, hey, I’s glad ya done it, ya don’t gotta explain. You’s a real pal, Kelly, thank ya.”

“It’s Jack.”

Charlie smiled. “Nice ta meet ya, Jack.” He shifted on the cold floor and looked around. “Say, you wouldn't happen ta know where we are, wouldja?”

Jack tried to take in his surroundings without moving his head too much. Small room, single window, locked door. Completely unfamiliar, at least from what he could see. “Nah. Sorry, Charlie.”

“It ain’t your fault.” 

Jack huffed a laugh. “It is, actually.” 

Charlie started to giggle. “I guess it is, ain’t it.” His eyes met Jack’s, and the two boys dissolved into a fit of laughter that left both of them crying and aching with the absurd unfairness of it all. Once they’d laughed themselves out, Charlie scratched his chest and said, “Well, I dunno ‘bout you, but I kinda hopes they leaves us in here a while. I ain’t had a chance ta get ta know nobody yet, an’ I can’t wait ta stretch out on this floor like a starfish an’ sleep.” 

Jack smiled a little. “Yeah.” He didn’t really want to be friends with Charlie—well, no, that wasn’t true, he _did_ want to be friends with Charlie, he did, he really did, in fact he wanted that so much that he thought he might have to punch anyone who even just _tried_ to pull him away from Charlie—but was that okay? He really didn’t want Charlie to be associated with him and to get hurt for being linked to him and Jack knew he was bad news, he was trouble, his papa said so and Mr. O’Malley said so and Snyder said so but… that ship had probably already sailed, hadn’t it? Because, well, they were in here together, and everyone had seen him beating Snyder up for Charlie’s sake, and that definitely tied the two of them together, and that damage was done, which meant… well, that meant that… that being friends with Charlie… well, that was okay now, right? Maybe? 

Jack looked timidly at Charlie through his one good eye and saw the kid smiling brilliantly back. Jack relaxed a little, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Charlie wouldn’t be smiling like that unless he wanted to be friends with Jack, right? Because smiles like that-- that’s how friends worked, wasn’t it? He thought that was how friends worked; but it had been a while since he’d last made friends, and maybe the rules had changed since then. Maybe he was doing this all wrong. Maybe he’d ruin this just like he ruined everything. But maybe not… maybe Charlie would tell him when he got things wrong and… and forgive him… and maybe Charlie would make things lighter for Jack. Just a little lighter. Even just a little would help.

 

*

 

Snyder didn’t come back for several days, and by that time Charlie and Jack were fast friends. They’d spent their time in the storage closet joking and dreaming and whispering about what they were going to do when they grew up and got out of here, and when they got tired they fell asleep side by side, Jack’s head tucked against Charlie’s chest, Charlie’s arm draped lightly across Jack’s aching body.

Eventually Snyder did come back, though, just as tall and menacing as they remembered him. “It’s off to the Children’s Aid Society with you boys,” Snyder growled, yanking them upright. Jack bit back a yelp at the motion and pressure, and Charlie winced, too, but they caught each other’s eyes and somehow that made Snyder’s rough treatment hurt a little less.

 _Children's Aid Society._ Jack didn’t like the sound of that. If a children’s jail was called a refuge, then he didn’t even want to think about what a Children’s Aid Society was. He wasn’t going to let Snyder know how scared he was, though, so he held himself up as straight as he could and didn’t make a single sound as he, Charlie, and ten other younger boys were piled into the back of a wagon.

“D’ya know anything ‘bout this Children’s Aid thing, Jack?” Charlie whispered—well, shout-whispered, really—it was hard to hear over the clop of the horse’s hooves, the rumble of the wagon, and the din of the busy city. 

Jack shook his head. “Nah.”

Charlie paled. “D’ya think… they ain’t gonna split us up, is they?” 

Jack glowered at his new friend. “No way. I ain’t never lettin’ that happen, Charlie. You’s my pal.”

Charlie’s bright smile switched back on. “Okay.”

 

*

 

The Children’s Aid Society did seem nicer than the Refuge, Jack had to admit, but he didn’t trust these crisply dressed grown-ups not to turn on him and leave him in worse shape than when he’d arrived. Anywhere that Snyder sent him couldn’t be a good place.

A white-smocked lady in a nurse’s cap began arranging the children by height and gender and some approximation of age, sorting them here and there until there seemed to be some semblance of order to the group of ragged, grimy street kids. Then she clapped her hands. “Now, children,” she said, smiling broadly, “I’m Mrs. Pitcher from the Children’s Aid Society. You have been selected to participate in our out-placement program!” She beamed, clearly expecting a reaction from the ragtag assembly in front of her, but they just blinked. Slightly disappointed, she continued, “For those of you who don’t know, our out-placement program places destitute, orphaned, unwanted children like you in loving homes outside of the city. There are lots of wonderful families out there ready and willing to offer you food and clothing and a roof over your heads—and for the littler ones, they’ll even make sure you go to school.”

The children began to whisper and stir, and Jack, who had taken it upon himself to rearrange his spot so that he was standing next to the shorter, younger Charlie, turned to his friend, eyes wide.

Mrs. Pitcher added, “We have learned over the years that some children are harder to place in families, and of course we don’t want you to have to make a long train journey out West if you don’t need to, so we’ll be selecting some of you for the train and having others of you stay behind. If you aren’t chosen this time around, don’t worry—your chance will come.” She smoothed her apron down and smiled again.

 _This lady smiles too much_ , Jack thought.

“Alright, children. I’ll be sorting you into two groups now. If I direct you to this side of the room, please take a seat and wait for my colleague, Mr. Johnson, to collect your information so that we can get you all ready for your train ride. If I direct you to the other side of the room, please take a seat and wait for my other colleague, Mr. Porter, to take your information so that we can make sure we return you to the institution you came from. If you arrived from the streets, we will house you here until the next train leaves. All clear?” The children nodded furiously.

Jack was so excited he could barely breathe. This is what he’d wanted all along! _They’s got a train. A train! A train outta this stinkin’ city! They’s gonna put me on a train out West an’ I’s gonna have a fam’ly an’ food ta eat an’ maybe I’ll even get ta go ta school again an’…_ He felt Mrs. Pitcher’s firm hands on his shoulders directing him to the right side of the room. “Go see Mr. Johnson, dear.”

Jack nodded and grinned so wide that he split his newly healed lip back open. He was getting out! He was going West! He started to hurry over to Mr. Johnson, but then he stopped. He and Charlie were going to go on this adventure together, so it was only right to start it together, too. He turned around, dawdling to wait up for Charlie, only to see that Mrs. Pitcher had sent Charlie to the other side of the room. _What? No. No no no no._

Charlie gave a sad little wave and a rueful smile. _Have fun, Jack_ , he mouthed. _I’ll see ya around_.

Jack clenched his jaw and glared at the back of Mrs. Pitcher’s head. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said, “But I think ya made a mistake here. That’s my friend over there, an’ we’s goin’ out West together.”

She turned, a puzzled look on her face. “Who’s your friend, dear?”

 _Don’t ‘dear’ me,_ Jack thought, but what he said was, “Charlie. He’s the one with the blonde hair.” Mrs. Pitcher looked over at the other side of the room, and Charlie waved. 

Mrs. Pitcher turned back to Jack. “No mistake, dear. Children like Charlie are more difficult to place, so we’re going to wait to send him.” 

“Whad’ya mean, ‘children like Charlie?’”

“Children who have trouble walking and working,” Mrs. Pitcher answered.

“Whad'ya..." _Good grief._ He could tell he wasn't going to win a fight against this lady when it came to deciding what Charlie could and couldn't do, so he readjusted. "Well, when’s ya sendin’ him, then?” Jack’s eyes had gone dark.

Mrs. Pitcher shrugged. “I really can’t say, dear. In fact, it might be best for Charlie just to stay here in the city. He’ll have more opportunities that way—farm labor wouldn’t suit him, and I’m not sure any family would be willing to take him at his age and in his condition.” 

Jack’s cheeks grew hot. “You don’t know a thing about him, how do _you_ know if he suits farm labor? I seen him work, an’ I promise, he’s real handy an’ real responsible—any family’d be lucky ta have him. ‘Sides, if you sends him back to the Refuge, that... well, that ain’t no opportunity at all! You can’t... you can’t send him away just ‘cause he’s got a twisty leg-- that ain’t _fair_!”

Mrs. Pitcher sighed and tried to disguise her irritation as regret. “I’m sorry, dear, but that’s how it is.” 

“ ‘S okay, Jack,” Charlie called. “I’s fine, don’t you worry ‘bout me. Go get your name on that train list, an’ I’ll find ya when I gets out West myself.”

Jack’s breathing sped up and he felt his chin begin to quiver. _No no no, no crying you are not going to cry crying is for babies_ stop _it Jack stop it!_ He swallowed hard and gathered himself. Once he’d calmed down a bit, he moved a few more steps towards Mr. Johnson, just far enough for Mrs. Pitcher to be satisfied and turn back to sorting the rest of the children. Jack didn’t go far, though—as soon he was sure she’d stopped monitoring him, he froze in place. Next he took a minute to watch Mr. Johnson and Mr. Porter, making sure that they were thoroughly occupied registering other urchins, and then he scanned the room to get a sense of what the rest of the children were doing. He waited until they seemed preoccupied, too, either with celebrating their luck in getting out of the city or with shuffling around, waiting to be sent back somewhere rotten or housed at the unknown quantity that was the Children’s Aid Society. Good. The coast was clear. 

Swiftly and surely, he made his way over to the wrong side of the room, slipping up next to Charlie and grabbing his friend by the elbow. “Let’s go,” he said in a low voice.

Charlie startled. “What?” 

“C'mon, we gots ta get outta here,” Jack said, tugging Charlie closer to the door.

“But you’s goin’ West, Jack! You’s got a spot on the train,” Charlie protested, resisting Jack’s pulls.

“I already told ya I ain’t lettin’ nobody split us up, kid,” Jack growled. “Now let’s go.”

“Oh come on,” Charlie scoffed. “Ya didn't mean it like _that_.”

“Is ya callin’ me a liar?” Jack’s eyebrows pinched together and he narrowed his eyes, both of which were still ringed by faint bruises.

“No, I just—”

“Then let’s _go_ ,” Jack hissed, practically dragging Charlie out of the room and onto the busy streets of Manhattan, where they quickly slipped away into the crowd. They moved as fast as they could, wandering aimlessly for hours, trying to get as far away from the Children’s Aid Society as possible. Eventually they ran out of steam and settled themselves on the front stoop of a busy tenement building, reasoning that no one would know they were homeless, abandoned children if they just acted like they belonged there.

They sat on the steps for hours, chatting and scuffing their shoes and inventing dirty limericks. It was fun, it was unbelievably fun, it was the most fun Jack had had since… well, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt like this. But lurking underneath was the knowledge that night was drawing near and they had nowhere to go. Charlie must have been thinking the same thing, because the later it got, the less certain his smile became. As dusk fell, the boys went quiet.

“What now?” Charlie whispered.

Jack pursed his lips and shot a quick look at Charlie. Why did this kid think he’d know what to do? He had no clue what he was doing, the only other time he’d been out on the streets alone he’d gotten caught and tossed in the Refuge, and why was Jack the one who had to figure things out and—and then Jack looked at Charlie, who was shivering a little on the front stoop, and he saw how Charlie's big blue eyes were trying (and failing) to cover up the younger boy's slowly rising fear, and Jack knew. “Come on, kid.” 

“Where’re we goin’, Jack?” Charlie asked, rubbing his bad leg as he rose from the steps.

“’S a surprise,” Jack said, giving Charlie a mischievous wink.

“You don’t know where we’s goin’,” Charlie said flatly.    

Jack feigned hurt, clapping a hand to his heart. “What, doncha like surprises? If I tells ya, it ain’t a surprise no more.”

Charlie rolled his eyes and sighed, but Jack could tell the ruse was working. “Okaaaaay. Lead on, Jackie.”

Jack clapped his pal on the back. “Atta boy, Charlie. ‘S gonna be great, you wait an’ see.” 

Two hours later, Charlie was starting to catch on to the fact that Jack had no clue what he was doing, and Jack was having trouble keeping up both of their spirits while still believing that he’d find somewhere, anywhere, for them to hunker down for the night. 

Just when Jack was about to give up and admit that he was lost, and he was sorry, and he had no plan, he never had, he spotted a gaggle of boys streaming down the street. Jack didn’t know what was going on--maybe it was just a bunch of brothers headed home and not something Jack could tag onto--but it looked promising. He grabbed his friend's hand and tugged. “Here we go, Charlie, this is it!” 

Charlie perked up a little and tried to move a bit faster. They hobbled down the street, trailing the other boys by a good half a block. And then they were there, and— “Lodging House,” Jack read out loud, wonderingly at first, and then again, excitement and conviction creeping into his voice. “Lodging House, Charlie, d’ya see that? Surprise! We’s got us some lodgings.” 

Charlie laughed and threw his arms around Jack, who ruffled Charlie’s hair and then hoisted the younger boy up into a piggyback ride. He could carry Charlie these last few steps, at least, maybe make up a little bit for dragging his buddy halfway across the city.

 _Lodging House_ , he thought as he climbed the stairs. _Hmm. We’ll see._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out-transport was the term used back then for what we now call the Orphan Trains. Most kids didn't end up out West (although some did)-- New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey were much more common destinations for the orphans and half-orphans (and non-orphans) who were put on these transports. The details here are accurate in that children with disabilities were less likely to be picked and therefore less likely to be put on transports. Older children were also harder to place, and many (most?) children were selected for their ability to do labor for the family. Kids were supposed to be sent to school, but families weren't always (or even usually) vetted, and no one was really going around checking up on things, so that didn't always happen. There are plenty of other details I could toss in here (eg the Children's Aid Society was genuinely one of the organizations involved in all this), but I'm getting tired of typing, and you can find more really easily if you search for it yourself-- it's fascinating stuff, too, so I highly recommend delving into it a little more if you're at all interested!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't supposed to exist, but I wanted to see how Jack adapted to life at the Lodging House, so here it is.

It took Jack some time to adjust from the sullen, combative, insular world of the Refuge to the boisterous, joking camaraderie that characterized the Lodging House. Charlie had no such trouble. He took to his new setting like a fish to water, while Jack just sat back and watched in awe. The younger boy made friends at the drop of a hat—he was quick-witted but not quick-tempered, always up for an adventure, a champion arm-wrestler, and had a smile that could light up a room. No matter how banal the topic, a conversation with Charlie made you feel like you mattered, like your thoughts didn’t have to stay shut up in your head, like at least one person out there cared what you had to say. It was impossible not to like the kid.

Jack wished he knew how Charlie did it. Charlie’d had it a lot worse than Jack had, but somehow Charlie was able to slip right into life at the Lodging House—within five minutes of crossing the threshold of the building, Charlie was already trading good-natured barbs with the other boys, engaging in the affectionate roughhousing that never seemed to cease, and being christened with the sort of insulting nicknames that meant you were part of the gang.

It was different for Jack. Once he’d found the Lodging House, once he no longer needed to be a leader for Charlie’s sake, he shrank back into himself. He listened carefully to the landlord’s instructions, clutched his newly rented pillow and bedsheets (rented on credit at this point, of course), and followed Charlie upstairs to the bottom bunk they’d be sharing. By that time Charlie had already learned the names of half of the other boys, and they’d declared him the best thing since bottled beer. Jack remained nameless for weeks, and that was fine by him.

As time went by and Charlie grew closer and closer to the others, Jack felt more and more lost. He _wanted_ to be friends with the boys, he really did, but there were so many of them, and they were always in a group, and they were always shouting and shoving and hugging and tackling and he couldn’t make sense of it all; he couldn’t find a way in. He was fine during the day, when all he had to do was sell papers; he had a knack for fancy phrases and attention-grabbing lies, he knew instinctively when a passer-by would respond better to a smile or a sob, and he could banter and flatter and dial up the charm so well that he soon moved from selling twenty papers a day to thirty, forty, sometimes fifty. Once or twice, when it’d been sunny and he found the right spot, he’d broken seventy-five. 

But somehow that self-assurance didn’t translate back to the Lodging House. Jack Kelly the newsie was bold and brash and larger than life. He knew what behavior would make the sale, he knew how to put on a good show, he was constantly analyzing and adjusting and altering himself to get just the right sort of attention needed to move the next paper. He was good at it, and he loved doing it—it was nice to be good at something, to hear the other boys’ gasps when he bought a stack of fifty papers in the morning and their cheers when he came back without them at night. But he couldn’t figure out how to translate that success, or their admiration, into making friends.

Being friends with someone was long and sustained, and that made it hard for Jack. Impossible, in fact. He wished he could find a persona he could put on and maintain at the Lodging House, too, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t—not day in and day out, not after spending the entire day playacting in public. Especially not when interacting with and being friends with the other boys required things his customers never asked for. Like touch. 

Physical affection was a shared and indispensable language in the Lodging House, and it was one that Jack no longer spoke. He and Charlie still clung to each other at night, and that was good, that was an anchor he needed, but if anyone else even so much as clapped him on the back during the day then he’d just freeze. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t seem to stop it, either, and the boys noticed and looked at him all funny. So Jack’s solution was to either make himself scarce or make himself small. If he couldn’t go hide away in the bedroom, which happened more often than he’d like, then he’d hunker down in the corner of a room and simply observe the other boys, cataloguing their mannerisms, their moods, their movements.

Charlie—who by now had acquired a crutch to help him stay upright for a full day of selling papers, an aid that led to the obvious and too on-the-nose nickname of Crutchie—noticed all of this, of course. He wasn’t stupid, after all, no matter what some of his customers seemed to think. Oh well—as long as they bought a paper, he would happily parody the version of himself that people wanted to see and then laugh about their gullibility once they’d left. 

No, Crutchie wasn’t stupid, and he knew exactly what was up with Jack.

“The boys here is nice, ya know,” Crutchie said, sitting down on the bottom bunk next to Jack. 

It was the middle of the day, not anywhere close to bedtime, but it was a rainy day, the selling was terrible, and they’d come straight back to the Lodging House as soon as they’d made enough to cover that night’s rent. Most of the other boys had done the same, but they were all clustered downstairs playing cards, wrestling, racing the cockroaches they’d caught and tied strings to, shooting marbles, and gambling with pebbles they’d found in the street. Jack, however, had shot straight up to the bedroom, where he’d spent the last two hours drawing imaginary landscapes in his sketchbook.

“They’d be your friends if ya wanted,” Crutchie added, leaning over Jack’s arm to admire his friend’s artwork. “That the Wild West?” 

“Yeah,” Jack said, adding plenty of spines to an absurdly oversized cactus.

“I bet the Children’s Aid Society is still sendin’ kids on trains if ya wanted ta go there instead,” Crutchie said, trying to mask his worry that Jack would agree and disappear.

Jack jerked his head up to glare at Crutchie. “What, ya think I can’t cut it here?”

“You’s the best seller in the Lodging House, Jackie, ain’t nobody thinks ya can’t cut it here! But it’s clear ya ain’t happy.” Crutchie settled himself into a more comfortable position before continuing. “Maybe out there ya would be.” 

“Mmph,” Jack muttered, looking back down at his sketchbook and attempting to draw a vulture on top of the funny-looking cactus.

“Well ya could at least _try_ ,” Crutchie insisted. “Ya don’t know until ya try.”

“Oh, so you’s gonna be my mother now, ‘s that it?” Jack added a dead cow next to the cactus. The vulture had to eat, after all.

Crutchie gave him an exasperated look. “You knows I’m right, Jackie. But,” he said, letting his big blue eyes go all innocent, “If ya don’t wanna try out there, then how’s about you try here?”

Jack gave Crutchie a suspicious look. “How’s that?” 

“Try ta make friends,” Crutchie said. “The boys here would be real nice ta ya if ya’d just give ‘em a chance. They wants ta get ta know ya—ya just ain’t lettin’ ‘em.”

Jack scoffed. “It ain’t that easy.”

“Uh, I was friends with ‘em all by day two.”

Jack slammed his sketchbook shut. “That’s ‘cause you’s _you_ , Charlie! You’s funny an’ nice an’ _good_. You’s a good person, an’ there ain’t nobody who don’t wanna be friends with a good person.” Jack brushed at his nose angrily. “But I ain’t like you. I ain’t good—I’s trouble. I ain’t the sort of person anyone would wanna be friends with, an’ I’s too tired from sellin’ papes ta trick ‘em all inta thinkin' I am. ‘S too hard.” 

“What?” Crutchie was utterly baffled. “Ya mean ta tell me we ain’t friends after all? Ya been playactin’ with me this whole time?” 

“No!” Jack looked desperate. “No, Crutchie, we’s friends, we’s for real friends. In fact, you—you’s my only friend.” His hazel eyes prickled dangerously and Jack scrubbed at them. _Keep it together, Jack. Men don’t cry._ “But I knows that’s only on account of how ya feels sorry for me.” Jack hunched his shoulders miserably and turned his head away. “It’s awful nice of ya ta spend time with me, but ‘s okay if ya don’t wanna. I’s a problem, not a pal, an’ I knows it.” 

Crutchie blinked several times. “I don’t unnerstand anythin’ ya said there, Jack. You… you think I spend time with ya ‘cause I feel _sorry_ for ya?”

“Don’t act like it ain’t true,” Jack said.

Crutchie laughed. “I ain’t that good an actor, Jackie-boy. I’s friends with ya ‘cause you’s funny an’ smart an’ brave an’ a true blue pal.” He paused as he heard Jack’s breath catch. “Ya looks out for me when ya thinks I ain’t lookin’—ya puts your blanket on me in the middle of the night when it gets real cold ‘cause ya knows my lungs is weak. If I look away then ya swaps our bowls at breakfast sometimes so that I gets extra ta eat. On days when my leg is hurtin’ real bad ya pretends ya likes ta tie shoes so I don’t hafta do it. An’ that ain’t even takin’ inta account how goshdarn _funny_ ya are, Jack. Ya knows all these big words an’ phrases an’ ya knows how ta string ‘em together ta make even the biggest boys blush, an’ ya notices ev’ry little detail about all our customers an’ ev’ryone in this place an’ when ya thinks no one’s listenin’ ya pops out with an imitation or a ditty or a pun that makes me laugh so hard I cry.” 

Jack turned back around. “Ya… ya hear me doin’ that?” 

Crutchie rolled his eyes. “Maybe I was wrong about ya bein’ smart. Of _course_ I hears ya, ya big dope—it’s my leg what’s busted, not my ears.”

“Right.” Jack flushed, but he looked a little bit pleased. “An’… an’ ya thinks I’m funny?”

“Why do ya think I laughs so much?”

“Oh,” Jack said. “I guess… I guess I just figured ya’d thought of somethin’ funny, is all.” 

“Nah.” Crutchie shook his head. “Look, Jack, I wouldn’t spend time with ya if I didn’t like ya. You’s my best friend, okay? An’ I knows if ya’d just let the other boys in a little bit then they’d like ya, too. You’s a good person, Jackie. An’ ya’s an even better friend.”

Jack’s eyes widened, and he felt a lump grow in his throat. “D’ya really mean it?”

Crutchie shook Jack’s shoulder and grinned. “Of course, idiot.”

Jack felt a flood of tears threatening to spill over, so he quickly hid his emotion by growling and tackling Crutchie sideways, wrestling with the younger boy until they were both yelling and laughing and trying to shove their smelly feet in each other’s faces. 

That didn’t fix everything, of course, but it helped. Jack started out slow, following Crutchie’s lead in conversations and slipping in a joke every now and then, socking another boy in the arm to practice being okay with that sort of thing, singing his parody songs in the morning circulation line to keep everyone’s spirits up as they waited for the headline. And the more he practiced being a friend, the easier it got, until soon he found himself nearly as comfortable with Race and Specs and Albert as with Crutchie. And the longer he played the part of Jack Kelly the Newsboy, the easier it was to cherrypick the parts of that persona that he liked, like the confidence and charm, and turn them into permanent parts of the real him. Well, mostly permanent, anyway.

By the time Jack was fourteen, he was the de facto leader of the pack. He was the one everyone went to for selling tips, the one who settled Lodging House disputes, and the littlest newsies’ top choice for piggyback rides and pep talks. Jack still did spot-on imitations of every newsie in the borough, but, more often than not, he was now the one being imitated (albeit in non-comedic ways). The older boys patterned their selling cadence after his, the younger boys tried to dress like him, and the girls parroted his trademark grin. With his loyalty, his energy, his humor, and his complete and utter commitment to ensuring the well-being of the other newsies, Jack had won over the entire Lodging House without even meaning to.

Now that he had such close friends, he rarely thought or even wondered about his soulmate. He was happy, he had food and a bed and shoes on his feet, he had a houseful of pals to josh with and annoy and care for—what use did he have for anyone else? The other boys his age began saving up for pens and ink, started sneaking off places to write secret messages, and shared detailed –and sometimes wildly scandalous and entirely implausible– stories about what their soulmate had said _this_ time, you won’t believe it, just listen to this—no wait don’t read that oh come ON what’s your problem, can’t a guy spice up a story a little bit just for fun?

But not Jack. The only use he had for pens was to ink in his increasingly realistic drawings of Western landscapes. If the idea of using his precious ink to write to his soulmate ever crossed his mind, then he certainly never let on. And whenever anyone asked him why he hadn’t tried it out yet, because he was old enough now, and didn't he want to know if the connection had opened, then he’d just shrug and say, “I got you fellas. What do I need a gal for?”

There was more to it than that, of course, but his answer satisfied the newsies. And it satisfied Jack, too, at least for a while. Until Jack turned fifteen. Until he got thrown in the Refuge for the third time. Until he feared he’d run out of rope.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad curse words and blood and despair in this one-- I'm not holding back, fair warning.
> 
> I'd apologize but I'm not sorry at all bc I needed to write this for my own sake

It should have been easy. So easy. It was just after New Year’s, and Snyder and his men ought to have been sleeping off their holiday hangovers. Perfect time to sneak some food and blankets to the kids stuck in the Refuge. He wished he could get them all out, but since that was beyond even the fabled Jack Kelly, he figured he could at least make their bitter January a little more bearable by bringing a few things in.

He’d been planning this for weeks, gradually snatching laundry off of washing lines and filching apples and bags of nuts and jars of pickles from larger dry goods stores. When the new moon hit and he judged the streets to be sufficiently quiet, he borrowed several of the other boys’ newsie bags, stuffed them full of his stolen goods, and slipped off to the Refuge. The glass jars clinked softly in his bags as he started to scale the wall, and Jack swore under his breath. They must've moved around on the walk over here and slipped out of the blankets he'd swaddled them in. Should’ve rewrapped them. Oh well, they weren’t that loud, and it was three in the morning, and there was no way that Snyder and Fisher and the rest of them were up and sober enough to hear him from inside. 

He hadn’t reckoned on their being outside.

As Jack reached the top of the wall surrounding the Refuge and hopped down onto the other side, he heard a shout behind him. 

“Oy! Kelly!” 

Jack whirled around to see Snyder and Harris stumbling down the street towards the gates of the Refuge, quickly picking up speed as their alcohol-soaked brains realized that they’d caught him in the act of breaking and entering, and possibly also trafficking in stolen goods. 

Jack panicked. He ditched the bags and ran along the wall to try and climb back up it and jump down at a point where Snyder and Harris wouldn’t be, but Snyder sent Harris to shadow Jack’s position on the outside of the wall, while Snyder himself unlocked the gates and ran to corral Jack from the inside.

Jack’s head whipped back to see Snyder following him, and his breath came faster, and he began panting in fear, and his hands scrabbled at the rough brick, searching desperately for purchase, but he was shaking so hard that he couldn’t find a grip, and Snyder was nearly there, and Jack couldn’t even find a corner to defend himself from, he was just pressed up flat against the wall, and Snyder was right there right there right there and he was curling his hands into fists and Jack knew exactly what was coming, and his teeth began to chatter and his ears started to ring because he knew what was coming, he knew it, he knew it, he knew it, he knew it oh Lord he knew what he was in for and he knew there was no way out.

Snyder stepped closer and swung. Seeing that motion, Jack started to cry. He’d forgotten that he was older now, that he was taller and stronger than when he’d been shut up here at age eight, and then again at age eleven, and it didn’t even cross his mind that maybe now he was big enough to have a shot at standing up to Snyder, that he’d grown up enough to have a chance, no matter how small, at landing a lucky blow and escaping. He’d forgotten that he was fifteen, that he was tough and canny, that he knew things now that could help him flee. His legs juddered out from under him and he collapsed onto the ground, the cold brick scraping up his layers of shirts and abrading the skin on his back. Jack was too scared to even notice.

Snyder’s fist swung wildly over Jack’s head and the older man growled at the miss, adjusting his weight to kick the teenager huddled on the ground in front of him. Jack shook and sobbed and covered his head with his arms. He crouched to make himself as small as he could, but no matter how small a target he presented, this was going to hurt, and it was going to hurt bad, and it was going to hurt for weeks and weeks and maybe it would hurt forever because who knew how he was going to get out of this hellhole this time? _He_ certainly didn’t know, and then pain exploded in his ribs and again in his kidneys and oh Lord oh Lord please please please

 

*

 

_Oh Lord oh Lord please let me wake up please please please_

But as Katherine pressed her lips to her sister’s forehead and found it cold, just as her parents had said it would be, just as common sense meant it would be, she knew it was real. This was real. Lucy was dead. Katherine was alone.

 

*

Jack stumbled and rolled across the wooden floor, his shoulder slamming against the wall as Harris and Snyder slung him into a filthy, tiny room. This place must have more nooks and crannies than anywhere in the world, because every time they brought him back they found somewhere new to put him. They did that on purpose, he was sure. Jack fought through the pain to scream at the two adults as they left and locked him in, and he was up and at the door almost before it was closed, banging against the wood and cursing them as loudly as he could. His anger kept him at it for a while, but as his adrenaline started to ebb, he admitted to himself that he was wasting his breath. They were long gone, and he was yelling at no one. 

Jack’s ribs were on fire and it hurt to breathe and he was such a fool, such a damn fool, why had he let this happen and he hated this whole stinking city and he should’ve left when he had a chance and now it was too late and he was alone again, alone alone _alone_ and it was dark and everything hurt and he screamed and screamed and screamed. And no one heard. And no one came. And no one cared. 

“You said I’d never have ta leave ya!” He sobbed, punching the door again and again. “You said you’d never make me go!” His vocal cords were raw and swollen, and every word hurt, but that felt right, that felt good, that was what he wanted. Maybe if he hurt enough then she’d hear him again, maybe she’d feel his pain like she’d said she always did, maybe if the pain went deep enough then wherever she was she’d know that he needed her.

“You _lied_ ta me, Mama! You made me leave you by leavin' _me_. You _left_ me here, you _left_ me!” He sank down onto all fours, his face blotchy from crying and mottled with bruises. “Why’d ya go? Why didn’t ya try harder? Why couldn’t ya stay for me? Why wasn’t I enough?” He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the ground, and keened into the floorboards. “I needs you, Mama. I needs you so much, I…” He choked on his own snot and coughed until he felt his lungs ache.

“It hurts, Mama. It’s like ya tore me apart an’ left me to bleed—ya left a little kid bleedin’ out on the floor, Mama. That’s what you did. That’s what you did ta me. Ta _me_. You said ya _loved_ me, an’ then you tore me apart. I was _six_ , Mama, I was fuckin’ _six_ when you left me an’—oh, hey, Mama, tell me, ‘cause I really wanna know—how in the _hell_ am I s’posed ta do this on my own?” He laid down on the floor and curled sideways, shaking on the floor, trying to catch his breath.

“Why ain’t you _here_? You was supposed to fuckin’ _be_ here!” He slammed his fist into the floor and watched the resulting blood trickle down his knuckles. He blinked, his eyes a little wide at what he’d done to himself, and then he grinned through his tears and brought his fist to his mouth, sucking and licking away the blood, taking his dear sweet time, savoring the feel of his tongue on his calloused skin. “I can hurt myself, too, Mama, see? You ain’t the only one what gets to do that. You ain’t the only one with that kinda power. No. In fact, ya know what, I says that ya don’t get to do that no more. Because you’s dead. You’s fuckin’ _dead_ , Mama. I’m on my own now, so that means I’m the only one what gets ta break my heart.” 

He took a shuddering breath, laughed, and then shook his head. “Just listen to me, huh? What a load of crap. I’m a liar, Mama, just like you.” He wiped a hand across his forehead and came away with blood from a cut he hadn't realized was there. “You broke me, you fuckin’ _broke_ me, and I can’t take it no more. I just can’t. Please don't ask me to.” He licked a stripe across the knuckles on his other hand, catching hints of blood there, too. He sighed.   

“I don’t know where I go from here, Mama. You’s missin’ everything what happens in my life an’ I don’t know what to do next an’… it’s been nine years, didja know that? I’ve lived longer without ya than I did with ya, an’ yet I still miss you every day. Every _fuckin’_ _day_ , Mama! Nine whole years of missin’ you! How do you ‘spect me to go on like this? How _can_ I go on like this? I might have thousands of days still ta live without you, an’ every single fuckin’ one of them I’m gonna miss ya an’ want ya an’ _need_ ya an’ ya won’t ever _be_ there…” He bit his lip. “I’m broken, Mama. You broke me. You promised an’ you left an’ it _hurts_. It hurts so goshdamn much I can't hardly stand it.” A tear slid down his cheek. “I’m so broken,” he whispered. “So broken I can’t never be fixed. Why'd ya go.” He covered his face in his hands and, finally exhausted, fell asleep.

 

*

 

Katherine’s mother always said that things seemed brighter in the morning. Literally, yes, but not figuratively, Katherine decided. She felt pale and empty and had absolutely no energy to get herself dressed for the funeral. Lucy would tell her to buck up, chuck her under the chin and give her a kiss on the cheek and help her pick out an outfit that made Katherine feel she could take on the world, but Lucy wasn’t here.

“If she were here I wouldn’t be having this problem!” Katherine yelled into her pillow, muffling her anger with goose down and Chinese silk.

A knock came at the door. “Miss Katherine? Do you need help getting dressed?” 

“No.” She wanted to be alone for as long as she could today; she could handle the service and the receiving line as long as she’d had time to scream and rage and cry beforehand, and even though the staff was paid to handle any and all of the Pulitzer family’s mercurial moods, she didn’t want to put them through that. Not today. Today was about Lucy, not about poor Miss Katherine they were so close how is she going to get through this poor dear poor little dear and sweet Lucy was so young, too, such a shame, what a waste…

 

*

 

Jack felt even worse in the morning. He was lying so close to the door that the edge caught him square in the side when they opened it to toss a slice of bread in at him, and his jaw hurt so much that he had to eat the bread in tiny, torn-off pieces. The dry food stuck to his sore throat on its way down and made him retch.

“Fuck this,” he said, and threw the rest of the bread at the rats lurking in the corner. “Fuck alla this.” He rummaged in his pocket for a pen and a small bottle of ink – he always kept some on him, as well as some pencils, erasers, and scrap paper. You never knew when inspiration would strike. “I don’t care what I promised ya, Mama—you broke your promise ta me, so I gets ta do the same ta you.”

He dipped the nib in the royal blue ink, shoved up the cuff of his shirtsleeve, and wrote in neat, even print:

_Hello soulmate. This is Jack Kelly. I am locked in the Refuge and I’m hurt and I’m broken and I need you to find me. Please come._

He watched the ink dissolve into his skin, a skeptical look on his face. Did that mean it was working? He was pretty sure the ink hadn’t dissolved like that when he’d tried this as a child, but it had been so long that he couldn’t remember…

Then he was hit with a wave of pain more intense than anything Snyder had ever dished out to him. His wrist blistered instantly, the skin bubbling and burning and popping before his very eyes. He screamed in agony and fainted dead away.

 

*

 

Katherine was sitting primly in the front row of the church, listening to the minister say things about Lucy that didn’t sound like the Lucy she knew but that seemed to be making her parents feel better, and she supposed that was good enough.

 _I ought to be crying, though_ , she thought. _I haven’t cried in public yet, and people will think I don’t love her if I don’t cry, and they should know that I love--loved? No, love-- her, but also is it any of their business? Do I want them to see me cry? Is that dishonest? Can I even make myself cry if I don’t feel like it? Would Lucy care if I cried?_ She frowned and adjusted the sleeves of her dress.

She’d had to wear long sleeves or long gloves since the age of thirteen, which was when the soulmate connection could theoretically open up for the first time. It was different for everyone, of course, but you never knew when it would start, and it would be highly embarrassing to have your first message available for all to read, and it would be even more embarrassing if you were in a public place when it appeared. Young men were sometimes incautious with their first messages, and Katherine didn’t want whatever he wrote to reflect poorly on her or her family.

Now, at the age of fifteen, she’d mostly gotten used to wearing long sleeves, although she did find it slightly inhibiting in the summers, when she’d much rather be wearing floaty short-sleeved muslin and feeling the breeze on her skin. She got especially annoyed about it on the really hot days, the days when even the dogs wouldn't stir, because her soulmate _still_ hadn’t written to her, and here she could have had at least two more years of wearing comfortable clothing. But no, she had to be a proper young lady.

Now, though, it would be embarrassing to go around in short sleeves, because that would reveal to everyone that her soulmate hadn’t written yet, and she was old enough to have that be, well... odd. She knew that he wasn’t dead; she hadn’t had an inkblot stain her wrist to let her know that she would never get a message from him. Maybe he was just much younger than she was? But that seemed unlikely; usually that went the other way, with older men having to wait for younger women. The most reasonable explanation was simply that he was a cad, and she was going to be stuck with someone thoughtless and irresponsible for the rest of her life. 

Oh well. As long as he existed, as long as he married her, and as long as he gave her a child, then she’d be fine. Because then she could get out of this house. Then she’d have a son or a daughter to help her fill the ache in her heart. Then she could have a child who hung on her every word, who’d listen to her tell stories about Lucy and let her hug them and cuddle them and sing them silly songs. 

 _Please let me find him soon_ , she prayed. _I don’t know how I’ll make it if I don’t_. 

As soon as the words died away on her lips, she felt her wrist start to prickle. She blanched. Surely she was just imagining it—the timing would be too bizarre if he were writing her now, right this instant, after years of waiting. But she pushed her dress sleeve up slightly just to check.

She gasped. There, on her dainty wrist, was a garbled mess of letters. Katherine’s blood ran cold. She knew exactly what this meant. He’d broken the rules, the idiot, and now they were both going to pay. She tried to prepare herself, but there was no way to steel yourself against something like this; within seconds, the scrambled letters began fizzing and burning and blistering her skin, sending fire up and down her arm and causing her fingers to twitch. She bit back a scream and tried to fight her way through the pain, but it hurt so much, so unbelievably much, that her eyes rolled back in her head and she slid off the pew onto the floor. And she laid there, wrist exposed for all to see, completely unconscious in the middle of her sister's funeral.


	8. Chapter 8

Katherine had been quickly revived with smelling salts and, despite her protests, gently but firmly escorted back to the house. She tried to get them to let her go, she protested that she was fine, really, she’d only fainted because… um… because she hadn’t eaten enough that morning (was that convincing?), and would they please let her go back to the service now, or at least let her go to the burial, please let her go to the burial? But her parents had given the staff firm instructions to keep Katherine quiet, and so the housemaid laid her nightgown on her bed, the doctor dosed her with a mild sedative, and the butler made sure she was locked in her room.

And there was nothing she could do about any of it. If she tried yelling or crying, then they’d say she was hysterical. If she tried to rationally persuade them of her case, then they’d shake their heads and say that her lack of emotion meant she hadn’t processed the reality of Lucy’s death yet and seeing the casket might upset her so it was safest for her to stay home. Thanks to her lackwit of a soulmate, she had no way to win this fight. 

Sedative notwithstanding (she’d fought tooth and nail against taking it, so a fair bit of it had simply splashed on her dress), Katherine was so angry that she could hardly think straight. Instead of doing as she’d been told by changing into her nightgown and resting, she stomped over to her desk and yanked out a pen.

 _What were you thinking, you idiot? You made me faint in the middle of my sister’s_ funeral _. I’m missing the burial because of you._

Jack had come to maybe half an hour after Katherine, awoken by a slight tickle on his forearm. He had to push his sleeve up to see his skin, wincing as he accidentally brushed against the burn on his wrist. His mother hadn’t lied—that had been a stupid thing for him to do, why was he always doing stupid things, stupid stupid stupid… His internal monologue stopped. There was ink on his arm. It hadn’t been stupid, after all—it had worked! She’d written! Maybe she was on the way to get him out right now! 

She’d written him in cursive, which he hadn’t really had much practice with, so it took him a while to figure out what she’d said. But as soon as he did, his stomach dropped. He hadn’t known she’d get hurt, too—he’d thought he’d be the only one to bear the consequences of his decision, and he was fine with that, he didn’t care about that, and it’d be worth it if it got him out of this hellhole, but he’d hurt _her_ , and that was unacceptable. The first time they’d ever talked, the first time he’d ever tried to contact her, and the first thing he’d done was hurt her. He slapped his palms against the floor and shouted at himself. “You’re a stupid, worthless _fool_ , Kelly! Why do you do this! Why don’t you ever fucking _think_!” 

He felt his arm prickle again.

_How could you be so cruel?_

He wanted to cry. He couldn’t make this right, he’d lost her already, there was no way she’d come for him now. But he could at least apologize. He didn’t make a habit of apologizing to people—it only made them think they could take advantage of you by saying they’d paid for their paper when they hadn’t, asking you for favors that you knew would never be returned even if you really needed them to be, or snitching your stuff when you weren’t looking. _I’m so sorry. I needed help. I didn’t know it would hurt you, and I didn’t know you were… never mind. That doesn’t fix it. I’m sorry._

Katherine felt hot tears splash onto her arm as she read his reply, and the ink began to run. _Good. You should be._

 _I really am._  

Katherine cried harder and laid her head onto her desk. 

Jack waited for a response, scooting gingerly back against the wall so that his sore muscles didn’t have to fully support his weight. Nothing. He thought for a moment, then dipped the pen nib back into the bottle of ink. _I’m sorry I asked you to come. Please don’t; I wouldn’t if I were you, not after what I did to you._

_Tell me about your sister._

Katherine tried to ignore the messages she felt prickling on her arm, but they throbbed for attention. It was hard to read through her tears, but she managed, and the words drew her up short. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected after such a rocky start, but it wasn’t that. She took a deep breath and wrote: _She’s my best friend. Smart and funny and the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen._

_She sounds wonderful. Tell me what makes her laugh._

Katherine smiled despite herself. _I do._

_Sounds like she loves you a lot._

_She does._ Katherine’s lower lip began to tremble. _Well, she did. Can people love you once they’re dead?_

_I don’t know. I hope so. I think the priest said they can._

_I’m sure your sister does._

Katherine sniffled and moved to settle onto her bed. For someone who’d made her difficult day even worse, he was surprisingly… nice. _Why do you need me to come help you? Where are you?_

_You didn’t read my message?_

_Personal details always come through garbled, if they even come through at all. All I got was random letters. Why don't you know that? Who taught you soulmate etiquette?_

_What’s etiquette?_

Katherine frowned. She’d humor him briefly, if only for propriety’s sake. _Manners._

_Shoot, there’re manners to this? All I know is not to write anything that lets your soulmate know who you are. And I guess I shouldn’t write on my face. That’d be mean._

She giggled, partly in amusement, partly in shock. _There are so many manners to this, and you already broke one of the only two rules you know. Your tutor must be terrible if he hasn’t taught you about this yet._

_Oh, yeah, he’s terrible._

_Why don't you ask your parents to get you a new one, then?_

_You’re funny._

_What? Why?_

_My tutor._

_?_

_…you think I have a tutor?_

_…you don’t?_

_…you_ do _?_

 _Where are you_ from _?_

_You know I can’t answer that._

_Touché._

_So why do you need help?_

_Can I tell you without making us both black out again?_

_Just keep it vague._

_I got hurt._

_Oh. Well, sorry, but I couldn’t help you even if I knew where you were. I’m not a doctor. Go get a doctor._

_Can’t. I’m locked up._

_Oh you’ve got to be kidding me. My soulmate is a criminal?_

_No! I pissed off the wrong person, is all._

_So you’re in a gang._

_If I were, this wouldn’t’ve happened._

_Fine, Mister ‘Ooh, look at me, I’m so mysterious,’ don’t tell me. But it’s been a long day, and you made it infinitely longer_ and _more painful, which I hadn’t even known was_ possible _, given that today is the day that the person I love most in the whole world – the only person I love at all, I think – is being buried out in the freezing cold, and I will never see her again. So I’m going to be honest and say that even if I could help you, I don’t think I would. My head hurts and my heart hurts and, thanks to you, my wrist hurts and my parents think I’m weak and I don’t get to say goodbye to my best friend. You are the reason I don't get to be there for her, do you understand that? This is your fault. So like hell would I help you, you selfish jerk._

Katherine took a deep breath and shuddered, watching the ink slowly dissolve into her arm. She felt a little twinge at how sharp she’d been with him, but he’d hurt her, so she figured she was entitled to hurt him right back. She sat for several minutes, waiting for his response, but her arm remained stubbornly blank.

Fine. Good. She’d shown him she wouldn’t be pushed around, that just because they were soulmates didn’t give him the right to treat her badly. She was glad he was being quiet. He ought to be. He had no business writing to her today, and maybe not ever, not after what he’d done.

She threw herself on the bed and buried her face under a pile of pillows. She’d won that round, for sure. So why didn’t she feel better?


	9. Chapter 9

Katherine slept restlessly that night. She wished the doctor would come back and give her a sedative now, because she’d be glad of the escape. After what seemed like hours of staring at her ceiling, sticking one arm up in the air and waiting for it to grow heavy in hopes that that might make her sleepy, lying with her head at the footboard, and finally tossing her blankets on the floor and trying to sleep there, she gave up and moved to her desk.

Normally she would write in her diary on nights like this, and she pulled the leather-bound book from her desk drawer out of habit. Then she paused. A diary was all well and good, but it couldn’t reassure her, not like a person could. And, as of yesterday, she had someone she could write at any time. She just didn’t know if she wanted to.

She fiddled with the diary for a minute before pushing it sideways, lining it up so its edges were precisely parallel to the desk. Then she drummed her fingers, set her shoulders, and reached for a pen. Katherine closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and rolled up her left sleeve. She shook her head at herself. This was absurd. There was no way he was awake, and even if he was, he probably wouldn’t reply, and then she’d just feel worse than she did right now, because she’d still be all by herself, only then she’d be sitting alone in the near-darkness, staring at her bare arm, waiting for something that wasn’t going to happen. It’d serve her right if he never wrote her again—she’d been awfully mean earlier, and if she were him she wouldn’t write back, either. Not tonight, anyway.

But, well, it couldn’t hurt to try, could it?

Or maybe it could. Maybe she shouldn’t do this. Maybe she should assume that he was gone forever, take her freedom, and try to find a life outside of her soulmate. Was that even possible? Eyes still closed, she twirled the pen in her hand, arguing with herself about what to do. She didn’t want to close this soulmate door before she’d even had time to figure out what was behind it, but what if this fight was a golden opportunity to chart a new path for her life?

Katherine made a sad, squeaky noise. She wanted to talk to Lucy about this and ask for her advice and explain how awful she felt and how little she cared about life now and ask if it ever got better. But that wasn’t possible. It would never be possible. 

But maybe-- maybe writing her soulmate was the next best thing?

She _definitely_ shouldn’t be writing him at this hour; it broke all the rules and made her look like a floozy. But he didn’t know the rules, so he wouldn’t think less of her or tattle on her or spread rumors… She shook her head and hummed a high-pitched note to distract herself. She didn’t have to write if she didn’t want to. She could sit here and think about it and write in her diary instead. Okay. She opened her eyes to shift her diary back over to the middle of the desk, but as she did so she caught sight of her bare forearm. She gasped. He’d already written. 

_You’re not alone, you know. I’m here if you need me._

Her throat constricted and she immediately burst into tears. _Even after what I said?_

_You’re grieving. I doubt you meant every word you wrote. And even if you did, you could still use a friend._

She sobbed in relief. _Thank you. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset, and I shouldn’t have said those things. You were just trying to be careful and not hurt me again. Forgive me?_

_Of course. I know how this stuff goes. It’s not easy._

_You had a sibling die?_

_No; my parents. So I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I bet it’s rotten._

_It is._

_I’m sorry about your parents._

_It was a long time ago._

_Does it ever get easier?_

One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Silence. Nothing but silence.

_You still there?_

One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Still nothing.

Great. Now she’d scared him off. She hurled the pen across the room with a scream and watched in satisfaction as the nib dented against the wall, splattering ink everywhere. Black lines dribbled down the wallpaper, blotting out the happy little shepherdesses her mother had picked out for her when she was ten.

Good. Good. That felt really good. What else could she throw? She started looking around her room, her eyes landing on a useless porcelain figurine, and she got up to grab it and shatter it in the fireplace. Then she felt her arm tingle. 

_Yeah. Sorry. S—The man I’m in trouble with, he stopped by, needed to get some punching practice in._

She scrabbled for another pen. _You’re locked in an athletic club?_

_You really are from another world, aren’t you? I meant that he’s punching **me**. _

Katherine blanched, and frantically scrawled one sentence after another. _Where **are** you? Don’t tell me, obviously, but give me hints, okay? I’m smart, I’ll figure it out, and I’ll come get you, I promise, wherever you are I’ll come get you—my father knows people, and we’ll get you out. What can you see from where you are? What sounds can you hear? Any distinctive smells? I’m sure it’s okay for you to tell me those things, and I’ll put two and two together, and then I’ll come get you._

_No. There’s no way I’m hurting you again._

She blinked. _But you’re in serious trouble!_

_You don’t need to tell **me** that! _

_Then help me find you!_

_Nope._

Katherine growled in frustration. _If you say something you’re not supposed to, I’ll grit my teeth and bear the results. I have to find you. I have to get you out of there. I don’t care how much it hurts me._

_Maybe not, but I do. Forget I said anything. I’m fine._

_You’re not fine!_

_I’m fine. I’m able to write you, aren’t I? That means I’m fine. Plus, I’ve already got an escape plan. I’ll be out in a couple of days, tops._

_Stop being stubborn!_

_I could say the same to you._

She ground her teeth together. _You’re a real smart-aleck, aren’t you? Knock it off and let me help you._

_Look, I’m sorry I said anything. Can we just drop it? You’re hurting worse than me right now, anyway._

_I hate to disappoint, but I’m really not in the mood to play pain Olympics._

_Haha pain Olympics I’m going to have to tell the fellas that one, that’s good._

_The fellas? Are you locked up with other boys?_

_I said drop it._

_I’m not dropping it! You need help! Tell me._

_No._

_Tell me._

Silence. She waited, envisioning him being socked in the jaw, falling over backwards, hitting the ground, and a man’s booted toe rearing back to—rein it in, Katherine. You have no idea what’s going on. Maybe he’s making it all up. Maybe he really is fine. Maybe he fell asleep. Normal people would be asleep right now. He’s definitely more normal than you are; he probably fell asleep.

But her heart wouldn’t believe any of these explanations. He was hurt, he was in trouble, and she had to help.

_Tell me!_

She banged her fist against the desk, nearly knocking over the bottle of black ink she’d left uncapped.

_Where are you?_

Nothing. Katherine burst into tears and flopped onto the table, sobbing until she had no tears left to shed. Slowly, her cries subsided into hiccups, then jerky breathing, and then the soft, slow rhythm of sleep. 

Jack leaned his head back against the wall, staring at her last message. He hated leaving her hanging like this; he’d wanted to help her feel better, and all he’d done was make her feel worse. Or maybe not; maybe it was good for her to have something else to be upset about, something to distract her from the hole in her heart. He knew he’d appreciated having distractions after his mother had died. He’d gone back to school two days after the funeral. Not because his father had made him, but because he couldn’t stand to be ghosting around the apartment by himself anymore, rubbing her unfinished piecework between his fingers, burying his head in her pillow to breathe in her scent, shrugging on her jacket to pretend she was giving him a hug. 

Stephen Kelly was oblivious. He certainly didn’t care enough about school to make Jack return, nor did he know enough about Jack to realize that his son was spending the day torturing himself with could-have-beens and what-ifs. Jack could feel himself sinking, though, and he knew he wasn’t strong enough to save himself if he sank any lower, so he put on a brave face and went back to school. He hadn’t been sure he was real anymore, at least not that first week, but he’d still embraced his math homework and the schoolyard drama with gusto. And it had helped. 

So who knew—maybe it was okay that he wasn’t giving into her. Maybe she’d feel the same about this new frustration as he’d felt about spelling tests and strict teachers. Maybe having him to worry about would keep her from falling too far into herself. 

And even if it didn’t, he had no choice; he simply couldn’t tell her where he was. No matter how much she begged. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d hurt her enough already; no way was he putting her through any more pain. Not now, not ever. He was better than Snyder. He was better than his father. Come what may, Jack Kelly would never hurt this girl again, not if he could help it. 

Jack took a deep breath and set his jaw. He’d fix this by himself. He was smart and he was brave and he could do this. He’d come up with the escape plan he’d lied about having, he’d sneak away without even being noticed, and as soon as he got out then he’d write her and tell her he was okay. 

And someday he’d find her, all on his own, without either of them having to get hurt.


	10. Chapter 10

Once Jack had finished making the rounds of congratulatory backslapping with the newsies, soundly beaten Race in a poker game (Jack suspected that Race had lost as a way to show Jack how happy he was that his friend had returned from the Refuge), won a series of chicken fights against the other boys (Jack and Crutchie were an unbeatable team; Crutchie was fearless and aggressive, while Jack had a firm grip and the quick feet needed to dodge their opponents), and scarfed down a week's worth of meals at once, he said goodnight to the other boys and climbed up to the rooftop. 

January nights were frigid, but Jack didn’t want to write to his soulmate in front of his friends. Not after he’d previously been so adamant about not writing her at all. Not after his previous conversations with her had been so… unpredictable. She was a spitfire, he could tell. He hoped that things between them would go a little bit better now that he was out of the Refuge and she’d had some time to find her footing in her new normal, but he still wasn’t sure where this conversation would go, and he wanted the freedom to react loudly and privately if things got frustrating. Again. Leave it to him to get a stroppy soulmate.

He ungloved his hand; no way was he taking off his jacket and pushing up his whole sleeve in this weather. He’d been drafting a message in his head for weeks, trying to think of what to say, of how to pick up with her after having refused to respond with anything more than a ‘ _No. Stop asking_. _I’ll tell you when I’m out_ ’ to all of her previous messages. Once Snyder had released him from solitary confinement and put him in with the rest of the boys he’d slept through most of the wee hours of the night, but she clearly hadn’t, because every morning he was greeted with new messages on his arm begging him to let her help, to please just tell her where he was, to stop being so stubborn and let her come get him, consequences be damned. He really hoped that she didn’t hate him for sticking to his guns on this one. The plan was to make it up to her with one stunningly beautiful message… If he just found the perfect words, then maybe she’d understand and, you know, fall head over heels for him. Or something.

Jack sighed and bit his lip. Three weeks of thinking, and he still hadn’t come up with anything good. He wiggled his hand in the cold and noticed that the nail beds on his fingers were turning an ever-deeper purple. He'd been out here a while; writing something heart-rendingly romantic was hard. He’d never been romantic in his life. He punched people and tackled them when he wanted to show affection, he didn’t write sappy poetry or tell girls their eyes looked like… peanuts? No, see, that wasn’t romantic at all. Just because peanuts are delicious and nourishing doesn’t mean that girls want to be told they remind you of peanuts. Peanuts grow in the ground, for heaven’s sake, no one wants to be compared to a dirty seed. Seed? Nut? Vegetable? What were peanuts, anyway?

Jack growled and shook his hand out furiously. This was hopeless. Why even bother.

Okay. Regroup. Just… just say something, Jack. Anything. It doesn’t have to be profound. Just say hi. She just wants to hear from you, that’s all. Hear from you and then yell at you, probably, but there’s nothing you can do about that.

 _Hi_.

Hi? Oh come on, Jack, that’s dumb, you can do better than that. You weren’t actually supposed to just say hi, you were supposed to break the ice but in a witty way and now you’ve screwed it up and…

_Hi._

He blinked. It had worked! He’d gotten a response! And an immediate one, too, with no yelling in sight!

_I’m out._

_Oh, thank heavens! I’ve been worried sick._

_No need, I’m fine. How are you?_

_Oh no you don’t, Mister Let’s-Not-Talk-About-Me! What do you mean, disappearing on me for weeks and then showing up with just a **hi**? I’ve lost a lot of much-needed sleep because of your mess. Also, stop writing on my hand. I hate wearing gloves indoors. _

He sighed. Spoke too soon about the yelling. Oh well. _Okay, let’s go point by point. 1. I didn’t disappear on you, I always replied._

_Only to tell me to stop talking to you!_

_Yeah, but I did write._

_You could have been dead!_

_I wrote you! How could I have been writing you if I were dead?_

_I don’t know! Don’t ask me!_

_Who else am I going to ask? You’re the one who came up with this scenario in the first place._

_Fine._

_Fine._

Pause.

_You said point by point. What else do you have a problem with?_

_2\. I told you not to worry about me. I said I was fine._

_If you think being locked up and beaten is **fine** , then I clearly cannot trust your definition of fine._

_I had a roof over my head, they were feeding me, and they mostly let me heal up between smacks. How much finer could you get?_

_I don’t even... Okay. Look. You could get lot finer. More fine. Whatever. None of what you just said is fine. You shouldn’t have to worry about having a place to stay or food to eat or whether or not someone is going to hit you._

_Everyone I know does. So when you don’t have to, things are fine. Good, even._

_That’s not okay. Please let me help you._

_I just told you I was out—nothing to help._

_You’re breaking my heart. I’d rather break yours._

_Isn’t breaking hearts supposed to be the man’s job?_

_I’m unconventional._

_3\. I’m writing you outdoors and it’s ridiculously cold, so I’m sorry, but I’m gonna keep writing on my hand. (Why does that mean you have to wear gloves indoors, anyway?) I’m sure you’re a nice gal and all, but in this weather I need to keep as many layers on me as possible. Put short: I’m not getting any more undressed for you than I already am. Not until I meet you in person. Then I’m all yours, sugar._

_You’re impossible._

_It’s part of my charm._

_Oh, so that’s what you call it._

_Mhmm. I’m irresistible._

_I want to stop writing you right now just to prove you wrong._

_But you’re not gonna, are you._

_I’m debating. But no. I missed you too much._

Jack’s heart flipped. _You… missed me?_

_Yes. I don’t know why I’m telling you that; your ego is clearly big enough already._

_Ouch._

_I guess after Lucy I just don’t feel like keeping things inside anymore. If I want to say something or do something or be something, I’m not going to censor myself. I’m going to go for it, no matter what people think. So, yes. I missed you. A lot._

_I don’t know you well enough to miss you yet, but I wanted to. Want to. I felt bad about not answering your messages._

_Why didn’t you, then?_

_Always someone looking over your shoulder in there. Hard to find a good time to really talk. And I know you just want to help me, but you’ve gotta accept that you can’t. At least not right now. There’ll be plenty for you to help me with when I actually meet you, I promise. But for now I don’t want you to, and you have to stop trying to get me to tell you things that might hurt you. I mean it._

_I don’t like knowing that you’re in pain and that I'm not doing anything about it._

_I feel the same way. Which is why I don’t want to give you any information on who or where I am._

_But the pain that we might cause each other by letting me find you would be temporary! Who knows how much longer you’ll be in… wherever it is that you are? The benefits outweigh the costs._

_I told you I was out. I’m not getting beat up anymore. I’m home, and I’m in charge around these parts, so no one messes with me. And if they do, I have a whole passel of guys to back me up._

_You don’t sound like someone I’d want to meet alone in a dark alley._

_Duly noted. I’ll make sure our first meeting is somewhere nice and public, then. It's going to make getting undressed for you a little bit more of a production, but I'll manage._

_Not what I meant._

_I know. But I’m serious about not wanting your help right now._

_You’re sure? It goes against everything I believe in._

_I’m sure. This is what I want. We’ll meet when we’re meant to._

_Okay. But if you change your mind at any point, then you have to promise to tell me immediately. Otherwise I’ll keep pestering you about this._

_Okay. I promise._

_Good._

_Good._

Pause.

 

_So, the gloves?_

_Soulmate communication is private._

_It is? I didn't know that. It isn't around here._

_You’ve been showing people my messages? Other people know that I missed you?!_

_I thought you were just going to go for things, no matter what people think._

_It’s a work in progress. Please don’t share my messages with other people. It makes me feel like I can’t trust you._

_You can trust me. I haven’t shown anyone else, I promise. I wouldn’t, anyway; the other boys like doing it, but it makes me feel kinda funny when they do._

_You have brothers?_

_Not technically, but they’re as good as. Known most of ‘em since I was eight._

_I’m going to assume that you mean you’ve known them a long time, but I don’t know how old you are._

_And I guess I can’t tell you._

_No._

_This is the stupidest system. I just want to meet you in person. I bet you’re gorgeous._

_Here we go again with the so-called charm._

_What? Don't tell me you aren’t. I won't believe you._

_I’m not._

_Oh, come on._

_You’re going to have to fall in love with my personality._

_We’re doomed, then._

_What, and you’re such a looker?_

_Duh. Prettiest puss this side of the Hudson._

_So you’re in New York!_

_I didn’t say that!_

_Relax. We’d have been in agony by now if you’d screwed up._

_Oh. Right. Then yeah._

_Me, too._

_Really?_

_Yes._

_That’s great!_

_No, that’s awful._

_Why?_

_Because now I’m going to be looking at every boy I see, wondering if he’s you. It’s going to be exhausting._

_You must see an awful lot of boys, then. Try not to fall in love with any of them, okay? But I can narrow it down for you—unless you see someone so handsome that you start drooling, he’s probably not me._

_You’re gross._

_But charmingly so._

_Keep telling yourself that._

_I will. Someone’s got to, and you sure aren’t._

_I already stroked your ego once today. Any more and it’ll swell so big you’ll explode._

_I’m willing to risk it._

_Oh, but I’m not._

Pause.

_I think you’re the sort of person I could see myself missing someday._

_Now I’m crying._

_Shoot, don’t cry! That was a compliment, why are you crying?_

_Because everything makes me cry these days. Was it that way for you?_

_When my parents died, you mean?_

_Yes._

_With my mom, yes. Not so much my dad. He wasn’t…_ Jack swallowed. He didn’t want to drag his father through the mud, but the older Jack got the less fondly he thought of his old man. _He had a hard life. I was mostly cried out by the time he died, anyway._

_I’m sorry._

_It does get easier, though. I didn't answer that the last time you asked. But it does._

_Thanks._

_You’re welcome. Look, my hand is freezing, I have to go inside. Talk to you later?_

_Yes._

_Good night, mystery girl. Sweet dreams._

_They might be, now that I’m not allowed to worry about you._

Jack grinned at that and replied by drawing several numbered sheep jumping over a fence. Then he tugged his glove back on, shimmied down the fire escape, and slipped back indoors.


	11. Chapter 11

That conversation seemed to have smoothed over their bumpy beginning, and gradually they fell into a routine. Most of their communication happened with long pauses in between, because Jack woke up at the crack of dawn, worked all day, and crashed into bed as soon as possible, while Katherine was more of a night owl and an abominably late riser, with intermittent spurts of free time throughout the day.

She would write him lengthy missives well after midnight, starting on one arm and continuing onto the next. He had long since replaced her diary; she’d quickly and instinctively felt that he would keep her secrets, and since he still didn’t quite seem real to her, she felt no qualms about pouring her heart out to him. She knew he was a living, breathing person, of course, but she struggled to picture a day when he would be anything beyond a series of clever, encouraging words on her arm. And since she couldn’t envision ever meeting the man who already knew more about her than she was willing to admit to herself, the things that she wrote to him were confessional and exploratory in ways that told him far more than she thought she was saying.

Jack was an early riser partly out of necessity, sure, but mostly he woke up early because he genuinely liked having a few minutes to himself in the morning before the city woke up and the boys got loud. He liked sleeping, too, though, and so before Katherine came along, he had his morning routine perfectly timed—sleep as long as possible, snatch fifteen minutes of quiet time, wake up Crutchie and the other boys, go sell newspapers.

After Katherine, he decided he needed to read her messages more than he needed to sleep. No way was he reading her letters –because that’s what they were, really– in front of the boys, and by the time he hit a lull in the steady stream of morning selling, her words would have worn away with his sweat and the friction of his coarse linen shirt rubbing against his arms. He started waking up earlier and earlier to pore over her words, puzzling his way through the looping cursive and long sentences, trying to wring as much meaning from them as possible. He admired her candor and sly wit, and he looked avidly for signs that she was beginning to heal. He worried about her, his Mystery Girl, although he’d never tell her so.

Before her, he hadn’t realized that rich people could have problems. She did, though. There was no mistaking that. Sometimes that infuriated him—she had more of _everything_ than he’d ever even dreamed of having, and she was safe, and she was secure—how dare she have problems? But mostly he just felt sorry for her. She never talked about her other siblings (aside from mentioning that they existed), she never shared stories about her parents, and she never wrote anything about friends. In contrast, Jack’s messages were full of the boys (without names, of course)— Crutchie’s latest terrible joke, the chaos that ensued when Finch let a squirrel loose in the dorms, how Race had organized a snowball fight on the Brooklyn Bridge and smacked Spot Conlon in the face with a chunk of solid ice. Jack’s boys were such a part of his life that they seeped into his messages without him even thinking about it. 

_You talk a lot about your friends._

_I do?_

_Yes._

_Sorry?_

_No, it’s nice. I like it. Sometimes I pretend they’re my friends, too._

_They will be, when you meet them._

_That’s sweet. You’re sweet. I’m... not. So we’ll have to wait and see._

_Stop selling yourself short._

_I’ve invented names for them all._

_For the boys?_

_Yes._

_I have to know._

_Don’t laugh._

_You won’t know if I do._

_True. Just don’t tell me._

_Okay._

_The one who’s always gambling—he’s Chip. Like poker chips._

_Yeah, I got the reference._

_Right. Sorry. And then your best friend is Saint._

_Okay? I’m gonna need some help with that one._

_Because anybody who’s willing to be your best friend must have the patience of a saint._

_Ha ha. So clever._

_You said you wouldn’t laugh!_

_Okay fine I’m just rolling my eyes._

_That’s allowed._

_I didn’t realize I talked about them that much. You never talk about yours. Or your family. I know you have parents—tell me about them?_

_Beautiful weather we’re having._

_It’s sleeting._

_Mmm. I think I hear my governess calling my name. Got to go._

Jack sighed. They rarely caught each other for an actual back and forth, and he’d made this one end early by asking the wrong question. Oh well; he’d pulled that same sort of disappearing act on her on occasion, so he couldn't be too mad. Instead of writing her back a message, he contented himself with drawing a tiger lily on his foot. He found it hard to pick the right words sometimes, and so he would often answer Katherine’s long messages with drawings that he added to over the course of the day. Once he’d woken up and read her letter through, he’d send her a few quick lines and start on a sketch for her. A single tenement building would grow into a busy Manhattan street, complete with grubby children, washing lines, and rickety pushcarts. A flower would blossom into a riotous garden, all swirling vines and languid petals and stamens heavy with pollen.

Katherine loved his artwork, loved watching these scenes expand from dawn until dusk. She loved it so much, in fact, that she was willing to overlook the frustration of having to wear increasingly modest clothing. Landscapes that stretched from her shoulder to her fingertips required her to wear high-necked dresses and long gloves, no matter the season. Dark stockings were also a necessity now; summers found the boys roaming the lodging house in little more than their underclothes, and Jack’s bare legs were a canvas too obvious and convenient for him to overlook. 

_Your drawings look so real. Do you travel a lot?_

_Nah._

_Well, you’re really good._

_Yeah sure whatever you don’t have to lie_

_Now who’s the one selling themselves short?_

_It’s not selling myself short when it’s the truth. Everybody can draw. Some people just practice more than others is all._

_I can’t draw, and I’ve had lessons._

_You’ve had lessons? There are lessons for drawing?_

_There are lessons for everything._

_What about lessons on how to leave this stinking city?_

Katherine’s stomach lurched. He couldn’t leave. She needed to find him someday, he couldn’t leave. _I haven’t heard of any, no._

_I’ll figure it out on my own, then. I’m getting out of here someday_

 

She bit the inside of her cheek. ‘Take me with you,’ she wanted to write, but she wasn’t willing to. So instead she set down her pen and went for a walk, grateful that her long gloves meant she couldn’t peek at her arms to see if he’d written anything after that. 

She stayed out late despite the rain, wandering up one street and down another, grabbing dinner from a pushcart, handing money to a beggar with haunted eyes, buying five copies of the evening edition from a newsboy on crutches even though her father always brought the first one off the presses home for the family to read. The newsboy goggled at the dollar she gave him, but she’d already moved on. She tilted her head back and let the raindrops splash into her mouth. That newsboy wasn’t stupid like she was; he wasn’t out in this nasty weather voluntarily. If she could help him get home faster by taking those papers off his hands, then she would. She wasn’t ready for home yet, though. She needed a little more time to wander; her aching heart needed more attention than her burgeoning sore throat.

She felt calmer by the time she returned to the Pulitzer mansion; calm enough that she thought she’d even be able to sleep tonight. She got ready for bed without pulling off her gloves, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to see what he’d said next. But her curiosity got the better of her, and she tugged at the damp leather, peeling it from her arms and hands like snakeskin. Her sweat had smudged some of today’s artwork, but she could clearly make out the contours of a desert landscape, with a Saguaro cactus standing tall in the crook of her elbow, an Audubon-worthy vulture soaring across her wrist, the grit and sweep of the sand on her forearm so perfectly rendered that she felt it prickling against her skin. 

He was leaving. He was leaving, and this was his goodbye. She was sure of it. She felt the panic and sadness rising in her chest, and she quickly bit down on her hand to stop the tears. Once she’d pushed the fear back a little, just enough to keep it from drowning her, she kissed the images on her arm and reached to pull out a bottle of blood-red ink. Her mother had bought it for her a few years ago, back when she was practicing calligraphy and bored of writing in blue and black. She uncorked the glass container and then, instead of reaching for her fountain pen, she dipped her index finger into the ink, swirling it around until it was coated in crimson.

Shaking slightly, she brought the ink to her lips and smeared it across, pulling a handkerchief out of her nightstand drawer and blotting off the excess. Then she pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, dangled her hand off the mattress to let the ink dry, and fell asleep.

 

*

 

As soon as he woke up, Jack rolled up his sleeve to see what his mystery girl had written him, the way he always did. He frowned. There was nothing. He rolled up his other sleeve, then the legs of his pants, growing more and more confused with each blank limb. He moved to drag his hands down his face, trying to process what was happening, when a flash of red on his left palm caught his eye. He slowly turned his hand up, and there, stamped across the calluses and wrinkles and pinpricks of burst capillaries, was a kiss.

He flushed. 

He’d kissed plenty of girls before, sure, but this was different. He hadn’t even had to feel her lips against his to know that this kiss was real in a way the others weren’t. It was bigger and fuller and heavier, laden with the weight of all that had passed between them and of all that could happen in the future. It settled in his bones and made him shiver. This kiss wasn’t a byproduct of fooling around and hoping for more; this kiss _meant_ something. And he wasn’t sure he was ready for it. 

Instead of replying, he went to check the weather, shrugged on a couple extra layers of clothes, yanked on his newsie cap, and went to wake the other boys, leaving Katherine’s crimson kiss covered by a thick woolen glove.

By the time he felt prepared to reply to her, it was late evening. Deep breaths, Jack. Take it slow.

 _Hi_.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

_How are you?_

Nothing.

Jack began to fidget, and then he picked his pen up again and started to draw. He drew New York City in winter, the snow swirling, the sidewalks slick, the people bundled up against the cold, the candlelit windows. He drew until there was no space left from his shoulder to his fingertips, and then he yanked his sleeve down over it so quickly that he smeared away half of the sky.

 

*

 

His heart began to race as soon as he woke up. He wasn’t sure why, but then it hit him—his soulmate. He jerked up his sleeve and a sour taste flooded his mouth. Still nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He drew his brows together and fished under his bunk for another bottle of ink.

_Is something wrong?_

By noon he had yet to get a response, and his stomach was doing ill-tempered somersaults because of it. Jack Kelly, too nervous to eat—who had ever heard of such a thing? It took him two hours longer than usual to sell his papers, too, because he simply couldn’t focus. He used the wrong selling tactics on nearly everyone who came his way, and his usual easy grin was stiff and forced. Get it together, Kelly. She’s just busy. Everyone gets busy.

After another three days of silence, he gave up on the ‘busy’ explanation. He’d done something wrong, that much was clear, and she was punishing him for it. Well screw that; he was the leader of the Lower Manhattan newsies, he was the best paperboy in the business, he had a houseful of brothers who’d do anything for him—what did he need a girl for? He didn’t. No way. He had all he needed right here in the Lodging House, and she wasn’t included.

If he’d let himself think things through more clearly, he’d have known that what he was feeling was fear, not anger. It had taken him years to let anyone but Crutchie in close enough to be able to hurt him in any meaningful way, and here she’d weaseled her way into his heart in just a few short months. For all his cocky bluff and bluster, he was scared to death of having found someone else that he couldn’t bear to lose. He wouldn’t have phrased it like that, of course; he was terrified of admitting that he cared for her, how _much_ he cared for her, even if he was only admitting it to himself. But the fact remained that he had willingly given her the power to break him, and she’d taken that hammer and swung. Well, now he was taking it back. If she wasn’t going to be around, if she wasn’t going to be here, then she wasn’t allowed to hurt him. 

So he stopped writing, and his shirtsleeves remained buttoned tightly around his wrists. Let her write. He didn’t care. He was done.

 

*

 

Katherine had caught a nasty bug on her walk in the cold and the rain, and it took several days for her delirium and fever to break. Of course, by that time she’d long since rubbed away Jack’s last drawings and messages to her. She kept waiting for him to respond to her kiss, to reassure her that he hadn’t left, or that he had left but he still cared for her, to send some sort of signal that she mattered to him in some small way.

But all she got was nothing. Silence. Blankness.

_Hello? Are you there?_

_I’m sorry I haven't written for so long; I was sick._

_Why won’t you write me? Please write me._

Nothing. 

His silence hurt at first, a pain that was only compounded by her physical weakness after her illness. He was the first person she’d let in since Lucy, the first person who’d listened to her thoughts and fears without judgment, the first person she’d thought she could see herself loving somewhere down the line, and look how it had ended up. Utter disaster. After a few weeks, though, she decided that she’d learned her lesson, and she’d move on without him. Because as nice as it had been to have someone to talk to, she was perfectly capable of being her own little island. To be honest, that’s what she’d wanted since Lucy’s death, anyway. Independence. Freedom. Space.

She’d never wanted him, she’d never needed him—in fact, the only reason she'd let him get so close in the first place because he was her soulmate. Had he not had that going for him, she’d have kept him at arm’s length the way she did everyone else, his engaging humor and postcard-perfect drawings be damned. She was better off alone. She was self-assured, self-reliant, self-contained. He was a nice distraction, and he could’ve been more (she wasn’t about to admit to herself that he _had_ been more, and he’d been a lot more for a long time), but, well, it hadn’t worked out. So what. 

He was just like the rest of them, and that was that. She should’ve seen it coming, to be honest. She’d been a fool to think that his being her soulmate made any sort of difference. It didn’t. He’d abandoned her just like everyone else had—off to buy the next shiny toy, conquer the next business venture, charm the next member of society. Served her right for expecting anything else.

She wasn’t entirely at fault, of course; she’d trusted him so quickly because everything she’d been taught told her that she ought to. How many times had she been told that soulmates were meant to be, they had an unbreakable bond, they were a fairytale come to life? And she’d fallen for it, like the idiot that she was.

She knew better now, though. Your soulmate didn’t complete you. They didn’t heal your brokenness. If you wanted to get better, then you had to do that yourself. Or at least that’s what was going to happen in her case, anyway, because she would never talk to him again. Never. He'd betrayed her. He was the one person in the world designed to love her, and he’d taken that power and used it to wreck her.

Well screw that; she was Katherine Pulitzer, she was whip-smart and bold as brass, and she had the moxie to get whatever she wanted out of life, soulmate or no soulmate, marriage or no marriage, children or no children. What did she need a boy for? She didn’t. No way. She had all the brilliance and talent and drive she needed to accomplish her dreams, and he was not a part of that.

She took to dressing in the dark, and her sleeves and gloves stayed firmly buttoned. Let him write. She didn’t care. She was done.


	12. Chapter 12

Come 1899, Katherine was forging ahead on her own, the way she’d sworn she would, bent on making a name for herself independent of her father’s. She’d started off by going to every English-language newspaper in town, stopping by the section editors’ desks at least once daily, begging them to let her write an article on spec, she’d take anything, here were the latest samples of her work, please just give her a chance. It took two months of that for the society editor at _The Tribune_ to give her a shot at freelancing, and another five months of freelancing, pestering, and working the pavement for her to land her current, semi-regular position at _The Sun_. 

That gig had been a real coup at first, scandalizing her mother and secretly delighting her father. She’d been writing for _The Sun_ ’s society section for nearly a year now, though, and she was tired of it. She wanted to write stories like the ones her father had lived through and made at her age, the stories he’d built an empire on reporting, the stories that really mattered. Injustice, poverty, exploitation, war—she wanted to shed light on all of it, to force people to see the world for what it was and inspire them to make it better. 

Which was why her ears perked up at the dinner table one night in July when her father began complaining about work.

“My employees are a bunch of idiots. It took them ages to see the glaringly obvious solution to our financial problems,” he said.

Katherine’s mother blotted her mouth with her napkin. “That’s why you’re in charge, dear. You’re the one with the good ideas.”

“Mmm,” said her father, spearing a piece of braised asparagus. “Once the price of papers goes up tomorrow, I expect things to start looking brighter for all of us.”

“How much will you be charging, Father? Two cents?” Katherine asked.

“No, no, Katherine-- the customers will be paying the same price as always,” Pulitzer replied. “The price has been raised for the newsboys, not for the public.”

Katherine gave him a confused look.

He explained. “Regardless of how many papers they sell, my profits will increase by virtue of the fact that I am charging the boys a higher rate to have the privilege of selling for me.”

Katherine frowned. “So you’re solving your money problems by shortchanging the newsboys.”

“I’m giving them some extra motivation to work hard,” he countered. “The boys with initiative will find a way to sell more papers; the lazy ones will make room for new, more enterprising employees. Necessity is the mother of invention, after all.”

“Benjamin Franklin?” Katherine’s mother asked.

“The phrase is much older than that, dear,” said Pulitzer. “He did, however, say that a penny saved was a penny earned, and I will be saving many more pennies thanks to this price hike.” 

“But the newsboys already work hard,” Katherine said. “It’s not right to raise the price of papers without doing something for them in return. Offering to pay their hospital costs, for example.” She chased a few peas around her plate. “Did you even ask them what they thought of the rate hike? Did you even tell them this was coming?”

Pulitzer scoffed. “Like your mother said, Katherine, I am the one in charge. I call the shots, and everyone else falls in line. Why on earth would I need to consult the newsboys about my personal business decisions?”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know—maybe because they are a part of your personal business?”

“Katherine!” Said Kate Pulitzer. “Don’t speak to your father like that.”

“Am I wrong, though?” Katherine laid down her fork. “Look me in the eye and tell me that the newsboys did not need to be consulted about a change that will directly affect them.”

Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Go to your room.”

“I’m seventeen, Mother. I’m too old to be sent to my room.”

“You’re too old to still be playing reporter, is what you mean,” Kate snapped. “You ought to be writing to your soulmate and preparing for marriage, not writing for the public about other people’s marriages. Pull up your sleeve,” she added sharply. “Let’s see what he’s said lately.”

“Mother!” Katherine said, shocked. 

“Just as I thought,” Kate said. “You don’t write him at all, do you?” Her voice took on a decidedly accusatory tone. “And he doesn’t write you. You’ve done something to push him away, and as soon as he finds out who you are he’ll renounce you, and then you’ll never get married and you’ll bring shame on the family and oh, Katherine, what are you sacrificing your future for? A few bylines on frivolous columns?” Kate wrung her hands. “Think of the decades you still have ahead of you, pet. Mend fences before it’s too late. Stop pretending that your writing holds any promise for you, and focus instead on going after the one thing that will bring you respect and security: A husband.”

Katherine pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. “I can have both of those things without a husband,” she spat. “And my writing is _not_ just a hobby. I have real talent, and there are stories out there that need me to write them. _Me_ , Mother. Not some jaded, hardboiled man, but _me_ , Katherine Pulitzer,” she said, and stalked out of the dining room.

 

*

 

Katherine practically skipped home. The newsboys were striking, and she had the exclusive! She was positively giddy—giddy at having found a story to write, giddy at getting to fight against injustice, giddy at the prospect of sticking it to her father. Obviously, changing the world for the better was the most important of those things, but the other two didn’t hurt. Nor did the fact that the leader of the strike was impossibly handsome.

Impossibly infuriating, too, of course, but that was a quality he’d need if he were going to beat her father.

She gripped her notebook so tightly that her knuckles turned white. He was impossibly handsome, impossibly infuriating, impossibly cocky and stubborn and forward, impossibly… well, he was impossibly _impossible_. And she was _not_ attracted to him. No way. If her stomach fluttered a little when he looked into her eyes and leaned a little too close, well, that was just because she was unused to that sort of attention. It didn’t mean she _liked_ it, let alone that she liked _him_. She was here to write a story, goshdarnit, not to find romance. 

Her brain reminded her that love stories were stories, too, but Katherine brushed that thought away as soon as it surfaced and focused on rolling a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter. She’d switched to drafting her stories on her typewriter as soon as her father had gifted her one for Christmas. Writing things out in ink still hurt her heart a little bit, so the typewriter was a relief (editors didn’t accept things in pencil).

Once she’d typed up the first paragraph, her mind wandered back to that newsboy. Jack Kelly. Mmm. His mischievous grin, his sparkling eyes, the swagger that led him to believe he could win an unwinnable fight against her father—fine, she’d admit it, he made her feel hopeful and lightheaded and giggly in all the worst ways. She was behaving like her little sisters did when they chattered about their soulmates, and it was _revolting_. She was over all of that lovey dovey claptrap, she had been for years, and she wasn’t about to let some stupid boy distract her when she was onto the biggest story of her life. No way.

“Get out of my head, Jack Kelly,” she growled, hammering away at the keys on her typewriter. Her eyes betrayed her by flicking to a folded newspaper laid out on the right side of her desk. Sketched across yesterday’s headlines was a portrait of her. Heavens, but he was talented. She hadn’t known anyone could capture a likeness so quickly and accurately—even her soulmate, who’d had talent in spades, had needed hours to get the details of his drawings just right. Back then her arms had been a canvas of stops and starts and blurry blobs where he’d used water to rub away something he wasn’t satisfied with, and she’d loved that, she’d loved watching the process and seeing him make corrections until everything was just so, but this boy, this cheeky rogue, he had whipped out a carbon copy image of her in less than five minutes and she hadn’t even noticed him doing it.

Katherine sighed and rubbed her temples. Oh, she was in trouble, alright. Jack Kelly was undeniably attractive, and, even worse, he seemed to know it. This strike was going to be an adventure in more ways than one.

 

*

 

“Penny fer your thoughts,” Crutchie said, shifting on top of his bedroll.

Jack huffed a laugh. “There’s an awful lot of thoughts runnin’ around in my head right now, kid—ya’d hafta pay me more’n a penny ta get all of ‘em.” 

“Penny fer the nicest one, then.”

Jack smiled and moved to the railings of the fire escape, resting his head in his hands. “That girl reporter,” he said dreamily, “Is the nicest thought I’ve had in ages.” 

“Since Margie?” 

Jack frowned. “Margie?”

Crutchie gave him a look that said, ‘oh, come on.’ He shouldn’t have, though; he knew that Jack went from one girl to the next like Race ran through cigars, looking for a quick bit of entertainment before flitting away to the next high. “You know, the gal ya kept mackin’ on up here last week?” 

“Oh, right,” Jack said. “I forgot about her. Not the best kisser, but she were pretty enthusiastic.” He grinned.

Crutchie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, we all heard as much through the window.”

“Yeah? Sorry about that.” He didn’t look sorry at all. “Say, Charlie, did she talk ta you or somethin’?”

“Once or twice.”

“That explains it,” he mused. “ ‘Cause I don’t think I knew her name.” He turned from the railings and sat down on his bedroll. “Nice gal, though.”

“This gal seems nice, too, an’ I bet you’re gonna go through her just as quick,” Crutchie grumped. 

Jack sat there as if he hadn’t heard, running his teeth over his bottom lip. Crutchie sighed and laid down. Jack was impossible when it came to girls, he really was. Ever since he’d stopped writing his soulmate—a decision that had clearly upset him but that he’d refused to discuss with any of the boys, even Crutchie—he’d become an incorrigible ladies’ man, flirting and sweet-talking and kissing his way through Lower Manhattan. It drove Crutchie up the wall, partly because he marveled at Jack’s skill with women, and partly because he knew that Jack was doing it to avoid thinking about whatever had happened with the mystery girl who had made him so happy for those few short months in 1897. 

Oh well, Jack was always up front with the girls he fooled around with—he proved to them that he wasn’t their soulmate, he told them that all he wanted was something short and fun, and he was smart about how far he let things go. Crutchie figured that as long as Jack wasn’t leading anyone on and the girls knew what they were getting into, then Jack’s love life was none of his business. Annoying, yes, but none of his business. 

“Her name is Katherine,” Jack said abruptly.

“Huh?”

“The reporter,” Jack said, lining his boots up next to the case that held his drawings. “Her name is Katherine.”

“Oh.” Crutchie blinked. That was unexpected. “Well, she seems nice.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, making it clear that that was the end of the discussion. He settled himself on top of his makeshift mattress and pulled a thin sheet over his bare chest. “Night, kiddo.”

“Night, Jack.”


	13. Chapter 13

Katherine’s heart flipped when Jack agreed to restart the strike. The last few days had been a whirlwind—the high of seeing the boys stand united against the newspaper empires, the terror of watching them be pummeled by the police and forced to scatter, the thrill of seeing her article on the front page, the anxiety sparked by Jack’s disappearance (had Crutchie been there, he could have reassured her that Jack often took off for a couple of days to clear his head, and there was nothing to worry about, but he wasn’t there, and Crutchie’s absence was just one more thing for Katherine to obsess over). She was grateful that she came from strong stock capable of withstanding emotional buffets, but even so, she wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. Please let this be the last swing in the story, please let her father see reason, please… please let Jack be okay.

Davey and Les left the theater first, eager to tell the rest of the gang that they’d found their leader and plans were afoot. Jack dawdled, saying he needed a minute to scrub the dried paint out of his hair and to clean and pack up Medda’s painting supplies. Katherine tried to find a reason to linger, too—she wanted a chance to talk to him in private, to have him all to herself for just a moment. She tried to convince herself that it was just because she needed some good quotes for her next story on the strike, and Jack was nearly always impossible to interview in front of the boys. His role as their leader required him to put on a brave face in front of them, and she’d never get the insightful comments she knew he was capable of if Race and Henry and Albert and the rest of them were lurking around. This was her shot at getting some post-brawl honesty out of the not-so-fearless leader himself.

She watched him as he untied his painting smock and began to wash the flecks of paint off of his hands, humming absently as he did so. Then she kicked herself mentally. Sure, that was a convincing excuse, particularly given the news blackout on the strike. Hi, Jack, I’m loitering in a theater – a _theater!_ –with you because I need quotes for a story that will never be published.

Fine. The truth was that she’d missed him since he’d gone to ground. It was embarrassing and weak and _awful_ , but it was still true. She scoffed. He’d been gone for all of two days, and yet somehow she already cared enough about him that she wasn’t just worried about his safety—she missed his presence.

“Damn you, Jack Kelly,” she muttered, nervously tapping her pen against her leg.

“What’s that?”

 _Oh, great. Of course he heard that._ “Nothing,” she fibbed.

“Ya didn’t just say my name?”

“Oh, just to say hi, that’s all.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Hi.”

She blushed, and, to cover her embarrassment, she busied herself with capping her pen and slipping her notebook into the self-made pocket of her skirt. “So,” she said with what she thought was a pretty successful attempt at nonchalance (Jack saw right through her), “Painting is messy work.”

“Mhmm,” he said, still trying to figure out what she wanted.

“So, uh, do you have special painting clothes then, or…?” _Oh, Katherine, that was abysmal. What is wrong with you. Do yourself a favor and put this conversation out of its misery already._

He laughed. “Ya tryin’ ta suss out if I’m gonna give ya a free strip show? This ain’t that kind of theater, Kath’rine.” 

She flushed scarlet. “No! I—I just—” she glared at him. “I was just trying to figure out how long it’s going to take you to get cleaned up. I have some questions for you after.”

“Dunno. I got kind of a lot of brushes to wash an’ some paint ta get offa the floor. Maybe half an hour?” He said with a shrug. 

“It’ll go faster if I help,” she said firmly, striding over to grab a mop.

“Suit yourself,” he replied, returning to his paintbrushes. 

The work did indeed go faster with Katherine pitching in, and soon the only thing left to clean was Jack himself. He reached for a rag, dipped it in his paint water, and brought it upwards.

“Stop!” Katherine yelped. “What are you doing?”

Jack paused, confused. “Washin’ the paint outta my hair?”

“But you’ll just stain it if you use that dirty paint water!” 

Jack tilted his head. “Ain’t like nobody sees my hair anyways, ‘s always under my cap.”

“Still,” she said, “It’s gross. Also, the paint is dry now, so you can just pick it out.”

He snorted. “As if I’m gonna take the time ta do that. I can’t even see mosta my hair, how’m I s’posed ta get all the paint out of it?”

“I can do it,” she said, stepping forwards. 

“What?” Jack’s eyes got big.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said brusquely. “Just let me pick the paint out of your hair so we can get out of here, okay?” She hoped Jack didn’t point out the fact that Katherine could leave at any time, regardless of the state of Jack’s hair.

“Okay,” Jack said, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Sit down on that box so that I can reach better.”

Her tone brooked no argument, and Jack obeyed. “Alright.”

She moved to stand behind him and started using her fingers to work the crusted flakes of dry oil paint out of his hair.  

“Hey, watch it!” He yelped, his hands flying up to the back of his head.

“Aww, are you tender-headed?” Teasing him saved her from having to consider the way her heart was starting to hammer.

“I don’t even know what that means,” he groused, slumping forwards and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Means your scalp is sensitive,” she said. “Makes sense; I’ve had people tugging at my hair to style it since before I could walk, and that’s toughened me up, but your hair is so short that there’s nothing to style.” She smiled. “The upshot of all this, Mr. Tough Guy Jack Kelly, is that your scalp is as sensitive as a little kid’s.” She twisted her fingers up a short section of his soft brown hair, working out a clump of white paint. “Do you even brush this?”

“Nah,” he said. “I runs my fingers through it, seems ta work fine.” 

“Mhmm." She rubbed and tugged and massaged out another few globs of paint. "Honestly, I doubt you could get a brush through it even if you wanted to,” she mused. “Well, I mean, you could, but it’s so thick it’d probably hurt. A fine-tooth comb would be better.”

Jack fidgeted. It was awfully hard to carry on a conversation with her –even one this banal– when she was touching him like this, with her hands in his hair, her breath on his scalp, the heat of her body behind him… he didn’t like this one bit. Nope, not at all. He’d started losing control of this interaction as soon as he’d sat down, and he didn’t want to see where she might steer the two of them. Well, he did, but… but no. No, he didn’t. “Ya almost done up there?” 

“It’s not my fault you paint like a twelve-month-old trying to feed itself.” 

Jack huffed. “Hey now, some gals like cleanin’ up after their fellas.”

Katherine snorted. “Yeah, well, you better pray that your soulmate is a maid, because you get into more messes than anyone I know.” 

Jack stiffened, and Katherine’s hands stilled. “As a matter of fact,” he said sharply, “She’s a real high class gal.”

Katherine’s stomach lurched. Of course he knew who his soulmate was. He probably talked to her every day, because that explained the long sleeves pulled down even in summer, and they were meant for each other, and he loved her, and here she was running her fingers through his hair like an idiot, like a _whore_ , like he was someone she could have and he wasn’t, he _wasn’t_ , he belonged to someone else and what was she doing and why couldn’t she breathe and

Jack heard her gasping, and he spun around to grab her wrists, his eyes full of concern. “Hey. Hey now. What’s wrong?”

“I… nothing,” she said, casting her eyes to the ground. His hands were gripping her a little too tightly, but she was so grateful for the closeness ( _stupid, stupid, stop being so stupid,_ _Katherine_ )that she didn’t even try to move. 

“It’s the soulmate thing, ain’t it.”

She nodded. 

“ ‘S a stupid system,” he said, his voice rough.

She nodded again, cursing herself for being so weak, for her body for betraying her by starting to tremble, for the tears that were beginning to course down her cheeks…

Jack’s expression grew tender, although Katherine wasn’t looking to see. “C’mere,” he said, sounding for all the world like the sort of person who had the answers Katherine needed, the sort of person who’d hold her and soothe her and bolster her belief in herself. He wasn’t, of course, because he couldn’t be, and she knew she would just hurt that much more later on if she let herself pretend --even for a moment-- that he was, but right now she didn’t care about any of that. Right now she was sad and tired and jealous of the woman who would someday claim this beautiful boy, and she willingly let him pull her in close and stroke her hair. His shushes and murmurs caused her flyaway curls to dance, and she snuggled in closer.

He rubbed her back and pitched his voice even lower. He was nervous, she could tell, but he spoke with a surety that showed he meant every word. “ ‘S okay, Kath’rine. ‘S all gonna be okay. You’s smart an’ you’s strong an’ any soulmate what don’t want ya is a goshdamn fool.” 

Katherine sniffled and nodded, still too choked up to speak. Instead she unclasped her arms from her chest and returned his hug. Even if he was hers for no longer than the length of this conversation, she was grateful that she’d gotten to have him at all. She leaned her head against his chest, felt him tense and then relax, and let the tears fall.


	14. Chapter 14

Katherine had spent the morning interviewing newsies in other boroughs about the strike. Most of the kids were at work, since all but the top sellers needed daily income in order to eat and to sleep indoors, but there was a nervous energy to them that would definitely have scared her if she were her father. And every newsie she talked to was abuzz with news of the upcoming rally, the rally that Davey had proposed in the theater yesterday. 

She guessed she shouldn’t be surprised that news traveled fast among these kids—spreading the news was their bread and butter, after all. But it wasn’t just that they knew about the rally—it was that they wholeheartedly supported it and swore to attend. She found her spirits lifting as the day went along and more and more children spilled their hearts out to her about their hopes for a fair wage and a bit of respect from the big men up top. 

Still, light spirits didn’t fill an empty belly, so she stopped back home for lunch. She was alone in the dining room eating an apple when the butler rapped on the door frame.

“Telegram for you, Miss Katherine.” He extended his arm stiffly and handed her a small piece of paper.

Well, that was unexpected. Telegrams came for her father, not for her. She quickly scanned the message, her eyes widening as she did so. _Readers sent food for newsies come clean up this mess_

She squealed and hurriedly stuffed her notebook back into her pocket. Less than an hour later, she was at the news desk of _The Sun_ , bundling apples and bread and hunks of cheese and jars of jam and cuts of meat into old newspaper bags given to her by a disapproving secretary.

“Generosity is all well and good,” the secretary said, fluttering around her desk, “But this is a _workplace_! I haven’t been able to do a thing all day for signing for packages and thanking readers and listening to their stories about their husband’s best friend’s sister’s Great Aunt Martha who’s laid up with rheumatism and I’m so _behind_ now, is there any way you could pack _faster_?”

“Maybe if you wanted to help?” Katherine said, stacking three different kinds of pie at the bottom of an empty bag.

The secretary gave an offended little gasp and covered her mouth with her hand. “I _accept_ packages for the office, I don’t _pack_ packages for the office! That’s the mailroom’s job.”

“I see,” said Katherine, though she didn’t, not at all. It wasn’t worth arguing over, though, and she wasn’t going to let some dour-faced secretary spoil the fun she was having imagining the looks on the kids’ faces when she showed up at the lodging house hauling sacks of presents like a summertime Santa Claus.

The reality of their faces was even better than her imagination. The Manhattan boys who’d stuck to the strike today were lounging around the lodging house common area when she arrived, entertaining themselves by pulling bits of stuffing out of the battered couch, tackling each other onto the floor, dodging the socks Finch was slingshotting across the room, and nursing the limbs injured in Monday’s brawl with the bulls.

“Heya, Kath,” Elmer called from the couch, where Sniper had him in a headlock. “How ya doin’?”

“I’m good, Elmer, thanks,” she said, uncertain of whether or not to offer him her help. He seemed to be enjoying his informal wrestling match, though (despite the awkward angle of his arms, which Sniper had pinned and sat on), so she let him be. “Brought you all a surprise,” she announced. “Seems the newspaper’s readers were sympathetic to your story, and so….” She paused dramatically, lowering the sacks of food onto the ground and untying the tops. “They sent food!”

The moping and play-fighting and grumbling and napping immediately ceased, and Katherine found herself mobbed by a swarm of boys, all cheering and chattering and shoving each other in disbelief. Specs snatched a pear off the top of one of the piles of food and dashed to the bottom of the stairs. “Jack! Jack, get down here, ya ain’t gonna believe this! _Hurry_ , Jack!”

“All right, all right, hold yer horses,” she heard him call, and she shuffled out of the melee of boys to catch a glimpse of him. It wasn’t long until she heard footsteps hammering down the rickety staircase and then there he was, his vest unbuttoned, shoes untied, skin still damp from the shower. She savored the moment before he noticed her, watching the way his lips shifted in concentration as he tugged a fine-tooth comb through his sopping wet hair. 

“Hey, Jack,” she said softly, and his gaze snapped up to meet hers. He flushed and whipped the comb out of his hair, quickly stuffing it into his back pocket. She grinned.

“Whatcha doin’ here, Plumber?” He asked, running his fingers through his hair and undoing all of his previous work.

“Food delivery,” she said. “You struck a chord with the readers of _The Sun_ , so they sent food to support the strike efforts and make sure you and the kids don’t go hungry while you’re not working.”

“Well, ain’t that somethin’!” He beamed and sauntered into the common area, admiring the gaggle of boys happily munching away on pastries and pickles and pies. “Any apples left, fellas?” Buttons reached into the nearest bag and tossed one over to Jack. “Thanks, kid.” He turned back to Katherine. “So, whatcha doin’ today? Besides playin’ kindly benefactor, I mean.” His eyes sparkled. If she didn’t have an answer, then he definitely did.

She twirled one of her curls around her index finger. “I was hoping to, um, to interview you again, actually? I’ve been talking to newsies in other boroughs in advance of the rally, and since you’re the leader of the strike, I wanted to hear your thoughts, too.”

“Sure,” he shrugged. “Whatcha wanna know?” 

Her reply was drowned out by the happy shouts of newsies who’d just pattered down the stairs, so she moved closer. “Maybe we could talk somewhere quieter? Over a late lunch or something?” She saw a frown forming at the edges of his mouth, so she added hastily, “My treat, of course. You’re my source, after all, and I get a stipend from the paper to hold interviews over meals and things.” Total lie, but he didn’t need to know that. 

His expression cleared, and he beamed. “ _The Sun_ ’s gonna buy me supper? I like the sound of that. Let’s go.” He held an arm out for her, imitating Darcy’s manners from the day Jack had first seen Katherine, and she slipped her hand to rest gently at the crook of his elbow. “I know just the place,” he said, and motioned her gallantly through the front door of the lodging house.

 

*

 

They ended up at Jacobi’s, of course, as Katherine had expected. She would have paid for somewhere fancier, but there was no way she’d insult his chosen restaurant, and besides, this one had the advantage of being familiar enough to him to make him feel comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as possible when sitting in close quarters with a clever girl who meant more to him than a fun evening or two.  

Katherine asked her perfunctory strike-related questions during the first half of the meal, and Jack answered around mouthfuls of his Reuben sandwich. She eventually ran out of even unconvincing reporter questions, though, and they soon fell silent. Jack didn’t seem to notice, engrossed as he was in using his fingers to mop up the bits of corned beef and sauerkraut left on his plate. Katherine felt the silence keenly, however, and soon she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“A high-class girl, huh?” 

Jack looked up in confusion, a glob of cabbage halfway to his mouth. “What’s that?” 

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

Her reticence clued him in. “Oh, you mean my soulmate.”

“Yes. What’s she like? Why haven’t I seen her around at the strike?”

He snorted and reached for a potato wedge.

“But you write her a lot, don’t you?”

“Nah. Say, you gonna eat that?” He gestured to the pickle on Katherine’s plate.

She pushed it across to him. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” He stuffed the entire pickle into his mouth and sighed with contentment. “I dreams about pickles sometimes,” he said, tipping his chair back until the front two legs were several inches off the ground. He grinned, but, seeing the look on Katherine’s face, he realized that she wasn’t really interested in talking about pickles. He shrugged. “I ain’t heard from her in years. She, uh… she kissed me, an’ I weren’t quite sure how ta react, so… so I took a little time to regroup, ya know? But I guess she took it bad, ‘cause next time I tried ta talk, she weren’t havin’ it. Total cold shoulder.” He let the chair drop back onto the floor and adjusted his cap, nervous about her response.

Katherine frowned slightly, processing this new information about Jack. “And you never tried to get back in touch?” 

“Mm mm. I couldn’t see why I’d bother. I had the newsies, ya know? I mean, gals are fer kissin’ an’ talkin’ to, right? An’ I can kiss gals even if they ain’t my soulmate, an’ I can tell most anything to Crutchie…” he squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment at the thought of his friend, turning his head so that he didn’t have to face Katherine anymore. “Well. She seemed like a real nice gal, but it just… I dunno. It didn’t work out.”

“You’re still young, you could get back in touch.”

Still rattled from thinking about Crutchie, Jack snapped at her. “Why’s you pushin’ this so hard, huh? Is it ‘cause you’s got a real nice fella at home, so now ya wants everyone ta feel all lovey dovey ooey gooey like you do?” 

“What? No!” Katherine blushed scarlet. “I… I just…”

“Spit it out, Plumber. I toldja my story, so you owes me yours.” He leaned across the table and stuck a finger in her face. “Tell me why you’s so set on learnin’ all about my sorry love life, huh? Is ya wantin’ ta make sure I knows that I ain’t lucky in love like you? Ya want me ta admit that I’s all alone while you an’ him goes frolickin’ ta the park together like a coupla stupid lambs in spring?”

Katherine smacked his hand aside and slammed her hands down on the table. “He left me, alright? He _left_ me!” 

Jack froze. “He… what?”

“He packed up and moved. He’s out West now, I think. I tried writing him after he left—I spent _weeks_ asking him where he was and what I’d done wrong and why he’d cut me off, but he never replied. Nothing. Not so much as an inkblot.” She was gripping the edge of the table and leaning dangerously close to him, her eyes bright and her cheeks rosy with temper.

It took everything in him not to kiss her. 

Completely oblivious to Jack’s racing thoughts of _don’t kiss her don’t kiss her good gosh she’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen but don’t kiss her don’t kiss her_ , Katherine ground her teeth and stared him down. “Happy now, Jack? He left me, just like everyone else. Everyone in my life—even my own family, even my own _soulmate_ —ignores me and leaves me and breaks my heart, and I’ve had it. He’s not worth the pain. I’m fine on my own.”

Jack resettled himself in his chair, making sure that he was sitting a safe distance away from Katherine and her cherry-red lips. “So you became a reporter.”

“Yes.” She blinked, as if suddenly aware of the suggestive position they’d just been in, and then she shifted backwards, too. “My parents will be bitterly disappointed when I don’t get married, but I love my independence too much to give it up for someone who doesn’t really want me.” She sighed and pulled a ribbon out of a pocket so that she could tie her hair up. “It’s not that I hate the idea of marriage; I fell hard for him, after all.” She smiled sadly. “A little too hard, I suppose, because… well, it really hurt when he left. Still, I guess it was for the best, because I realized that if I want my life to look a certain way, then I’m the only one who can make that happen.” She straightened up and gave him a genuine smile this time, one with the life and strength and wit that he loved –no, not loved— _admired_ in her.

Jack smiled back and wiped his suddenly-sweaty hands on his pants. He hoped that she’d keep talking, because he was fairly certain that if he opened his mouth in that moment then something honest and vulnerable and fraught would come flying out. And just because something was true didn’t mean it ought to be said—especially not when that something could drive away a person you desperately wanted to grow closer to. _Keep your mouth shut, Jack, wait her out…._

Katherine rubbed at a water stain on the wooden deli table. “I want a life where I can support myself. I want a life where I can go wherever I please, whenever I please, with whomever I please. I want to publish stories that force this city to change for the better. And I don’t need a soulmate for any of that.”

Jack reached across the table to pat her hand. “You’s one in a million, Kath’rine Plumber. Ain’t too many gals’d react like that ta bein’ left that way.”

She winked and socked him gently in his upper arm. “What can I say? I’m unconventional.”

Jack’s heart stuttered. _'I'm unconventional.' Had she… was she…_ He gave her a queer look and scanned her face for a sign of some sort, a flash of familiarity, a trace of red ink at the corner of her mouth.

She laughed. “You look like someone just poured ice water down your back! I didn’t punch you _that_ hard.”

He blinked and brushed his thoughts away, flashing her a trademark Jack Kelly grin. “That’s whatcha call a punch? I thought it was a fly landed on me.”

She giggled and rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Kelly. Ready to leave? I want to interview some Brooklyn newsies later this afternoon, so I need to be on my way.” She pushed her chair back and stood up.

He quickly followed suit. “Brooklyn? Kath’rine, are ya crazy? Ya can’t just saunter inta Brooklyn like it don’t mean nothin’!”

She shook his shoulder gently and imitated his accent. “It _don’t_ mean nothin’, Jack. It’s just another set of streets in the city, that’s all.”

“But Kath—”

“Upp bup bup,” she said, holding a finger up to his lips. “I’m going to go pay for our meal, and then we can argue about this on the way back to the lodging house. Okay?”

Jack huffed. “Okay.”

Katherine wiggled her eyebrows at him as she walked away to the deli counter. “To be continued, Mr. Kelly.”

He nodded. As soon as her back was turned, he crammed both of his hands into his pockets, fishing desperately for an ink pen. He knew he was being crazy, he knew it, because this was a wild flying leap based on a single phrase that had probably been chosen completely at random, but… what if it wasn’t? What if it was _her_? His fingers curled around a pen just as Katherine finished paying for the meal and started back towards him, and he let go with a sigh. It’d be pretty hard to explain to Katherine why, after not having spoken to his soulmate in years, he suddenly felt the urge to write to his mystery girl right this instant, right after she and he had just had a conversation about how they didn’t need or want their soulmates anymore. And it’d be even harder to explain without making her mad or seeming like he was completely nuts. Jack kicked his boot against the floor in frustration. He’d missed his chance.

Katherine looked up at him expectantly. “Shall we go?”

He gritted his teeth, looking at her perfect lips, her intelligent eyes, her halo of auburn hair. _Why couldn’t it have been you. We could’ve been so happy if it were you. I wish it were. I wish **you** were. Dammit, if only you were her, I’d… No._ _Pull it together, Jack._ “So, Brooklyn, eh?” He said, affecting a knowing air and holding his arm out for her again. “Lemme tell ya about Brooklyn, Miss Plumber…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reuben sandwiches are anachronistic by 15-20ish years, but whatever.
> 
> Only one more chapter!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't feel like rewriting their fight, so this takes place in the rooftop scene once they've talked about Jack's appearance at the rally, Katherine's real name, and the plans for the future of the strike. They've already kissed, and they haven't yet sung Something to Believe In (which they aren't singing in this story because singing works in musicals but not in books. ~~Not even if you're Tolkien. LOTR could've been so much shorter~~ ).

Katherine placed one foot on the ladder leading down from the fire escape, her left hand clutching the case of Jack’s rolled-up drawings. She wanted to get off of this metal platform as soon as possible, partly because she was bubbling over with excitement about the plan she was certain would end the strike, and partly because she couldn’t believe that she’d kissed Jack, oh heavens, _she’d_ kissed _him_ , and she needed to get away from him and process it and maybe if she didn’t stick around for too long then he’d forget it had even happened and they could both… just… oh, drat, she didn’t even know what she was thinking, of course he wouldn’t forget it, but… well. She just… she had to go.

“Wait!” Jack’s voice cracked on the word, and he took a step towards her. “What… What is this?”

She cocked her head. “What is what?”

He gestured helplessly at himself and then at her. “This. _Us_. What… What is this ta you? What’re we doin’ here, Kath’rine?”

She met his gaze only briefly before turning her head aside and staring downwards. “You said earlier that girls are good for kissing. That’s what that was. Nothing serious.” She kept her tone brusque even as her pulse began to race. “Crutchie told me that you change girls more often than you change your socks, so don’t act like I’ve stolen your innocence.” She flicked her eyes back up to him just long enough to see the heartbreak flash across his face, and she took another step downwards, willing her knees to stop trembling long enough for her to make it down this stupid ladder.

Jack stayed at the far end of the fire escape, clenching the metal railing so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. He watched her take one more step down, and then another, and then he barked, “No!”

Katherine paused. “No?”

“No,” he repeated. “You ain’t gettin’ off that easy, Plumber—I mean Pulitzer—ugh!” He threw up his hands and strode towards the ladder, glaring down at her. “Whatever your name is, you get back up here right now, ya hear?”

She wanted to protest, but something in his eyes drew her upwards until she was standing in front of him. That was all the ground she was going to cede to him, though. “ _What_ , Jack?” Her lips were pinched and her expression mutinous. 

He stepped a foot closer and demanded, “Didn’t ya feel that just now? When ya kissed me, I mean.” She narrowed her eyes, and his voice grew pleading. “Ya did, didn’t ya? That spark?”

“How should I know?” She balled her one free hand into a fist. “It’s not like I have anything to compare it to!”

Jack’s eyes widened. “That… that was your first kiss?” 

“Of _course_!” She snapped. “What do you take me for, a prostitute? Since age eight I’ve been told never to kiss anyone besides my soulmate, because if I did, I’d be no better than a common whore. One misplaced kiss, and no one would ever want me.” She dropped the case of drawings onto the fire escape, where it landed with a clang and then rolled to a stop against her high-heeled boots. “And I was careful—so careful. I never let anyone in, never let anyone even come close enough to tempt me, but—” She laughed bitterly. “Well. That bird’s flown the coop now, hasn’t it?” 

She scanned his face, taking in the compassion and shock that he wasn’t even trying to hide. He… he didn’t hate her? She shook her head. He hated her, he had to. She’d kissed _him_ , not the other way around, and that meant she’d blown it. She was sullied. Her deep brown eyes grew even darker with an emotion that Jack couldn’t quite place, and her voice trembled. “I’m damaged goods now, Jack—or at least I am if you tell anyone this happened. You could ruin me in an instant, you know.” Her vision grew blurry with tears. “I risked my entire future just now for a quick kiss with you, and you… you want to know if I felt a _spark_?”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “This soulmate thing sure has a lotta rules I ain’t never heard of. I’s kissed plenty o’ girls—” he realized belatedly that this was probably not the right thing to say, but he was too far along now to stop, “an’ several of ‘em’s got married ta their soulmates since then; their fellas didn’t care a bit. An’ Kath’rine,” he said, taking another step towards her, his voice kind, “Kath’rine, I promise ya, they’s real happy now.”

Katherine dragged a sleeve across her cheeks to erase the evidence of her tears. She gritted her teeth and steadied her voice. “Well, that’s nice for them, but that’s not how things work in my world.”

“They could, though,” Jack said gently, reaching to take her hands in his. “I ain’t gonna tell no one if ya don’t want me to. An’ believe me, that kiss just now…” He gave a low whistle. “That was somethin’ else, lemme tell you. You felt it, too, I know ya did, ‘cause I don’t believe ya for a minute when ya say ya did it just ‘cause ya wanted somethin’ quick an’ fun. Ya wouldn’t do that. You’s too careful for that. Ya wanted…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish that thought, so he redirected. “It meant somethin’. I knows it an’ you knows it. That were a good kiss.” He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. Even if she never kissed him again, he’d always remember the electric shock of her lips on his, and rest assured, he’d be replaying it in his head for the rest of his life. “So. Be honest with me now, girlie, yeah? How was it?”

She choked out a short laugh, and Jack responded with a hopeful smile. Katherine looked down at his dirty, workworn hands and nodded slowly. “It… it was nice for me, too.”

He rubbed his thumbs across the backs of her hands and drew her in closer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She raised her head and gave him a shy smile. “You’re not fooling? You felt something special?”

Jack nodded solemnly. “I wouldn’t make fun about this, I…” He grimaced and dropped her hands to start pacing back and forth across the cramped fire escape. She watched, confused, as he clamped his hands firmly atop his head, pressing his newsboy cap flat against his unruly hair. After several interminable seconds, he stopped and spun to face her. “Look, Kath’rine. I… I like you. I…” He hissed in frustration and stared at his feet. “Why’s everythin’ gotta be _spoken_? This is important, but I ain’t no good with talkin’ about feelin’s, so it’s gonna come out all wrong, an’ I just…” He reached out to grip the metal railings of the fire escape again. “What I mean ta say, Plumber,” he continued, lifting his head back up to face her, hoping that the sincerity of his expression would make up for any tangled words, “Is that you… I…” He rolled his shoulders and brushed at his nose. “I really like you. A lot. I… I miss ya when I ain’t near ya, an’ then when I _is_ near ya, my heart does funny things. Like somersaults an’ stuff. My stomach gets so tied in knots that I has trouble eatin’.” She scoffed, and he looked offended. “No, really! I... I goes all wobbly when ya look at me, Kath’rine, an’ my thoughts won’t run straight. I keeps drawin’ ya in my sketchbook. I gets worried about ya when ya insist on walkin’ home alone. I…” He trailed off and flushed beet red. “Now ya prob’ly hates me. It ain’t decent, what I just toldja, ‘specially not after ya said ya weren’t serious about me, but I just… well, I’d hoped...” He shook his head. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I’ll let ya go, I—”

Katherine flung herself forwards and cut him off with a passionate kiss. Jack’s eyes widened, then fluttered closed, and then he let himself forget everything but her for just a moment, fully immersed in the soft touch of her lips against his, the warmth of her hands on the back of his head and neck, the press of her perfect little nose against his lightly stubbled cheek.

Katherine pulled back eventually and slowly traced his jawline with a finger, amazed at herself for being so bold, amazed that he had let her take such liberties, amazed that he… he _cared_ for her. He cared. He did. She wasn’t leading herself on. He’d as good as admitted it. She blinked. “I don’t feel alone when I’m with you,” she said in wonder, as if she were just now realizing this herself. “I’m not just a piece of scenery to you, I… I exist. I matter. You _like_ who I am, Jack—do you know how many years I’ve longed for that? You don’t mind that I’m stubborn and ambitious and bossy—you _like_ me for all of that, and you let me be myself.” She laughed. “Hell, you help me to be even more myself, though I don’t think my parents will be too pleased about that.” Katherine shook her head. “I didn’t even know that was possible, Jack. I thought people only tied you down, took things away from you, pulled pieces off of you until you had nothing left. But you…” She scanned his face, seeing an openness and understanding that took her breath away. “You don’t take—you give. You’ve given me confidence, and happiness, and… and hope.” Her breath hitched. “You believe in me, Jack, even when I don’t believe in myself, and that… that’s a rare gift. I…” She could hear her own heart hammering and wondered if he could hear it, too. “ I… don’t know much about these sorts of things—about relationships, I mean—but I do know that you make me feel safe and warm and… and _seen_ , and I want to make you feel that way, too. And I’ve never…” She took a deep breath. “I’ve never felt like this before. But I like it. And… if you feel the same, then… maybe… maybe we can… ”

She trailed off, and he gave her a tender smile, tucking a stray curl back behind her ear. “Say it, darlin’. I don’t wanna push ya inta anythin’—you’s got more ta lose from this than I do, so you’s gotta be the one ta decide what happens here.” He looked down at her and caressed her cheek, his green eyes soft and welcoming. “Talk ta me, Kath’rine. Tell me whatcha want.”

“You,” she whispered, looking up at him with worry and hope. “I want you, Jack.”

That was the answer he’d been more than halfway expecting, of course, but hearing her say it still caused tears to form at the corners of his eyes. “For sure?” His mouth had gone dry, and his voice was raspy.

“For sure,” she said, imitating his thick accent, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her face. “Do you want me, too?”

“Always,” he said, pulling her in for another kiss. Where the last one was desperate and fiery and shot through with uncertainty, this one was sweet and full and sure, the seal of an as-yet unspoken promise. He wound one hand through her thick auburn hair and cupped her cheek with the other, abandoning himself completely to the sensation of this beautiful girl, of her smells and sounds and comforting warmth. “Always,” he murmured into her mouth, and he felt her sigh and tug him still closer.

When they finally separated, they were both breathless and flushed, their expressions a mixture of happiness and hope and unmasked surprise. Katherine spoke first. “Are we… Are we doing this, then? For real?” 

“Please,” he begged. “Oh, Kath’rine, please say you want this the way I do.”

“Silly boy,” she said fondly, smoothing down the hair peeking out from the front of his cap. “I already said I did.”

“Say it again,” he said, his eyes frantic, his voice strained. “I needs to be sure. I needs to know ya ain’t gonna leave me in the mornin’ like this was all some fever dream. If you leave all sudden-like, then I can’t… I…” His chest was heaving. “I’m scared, Kath’rine. I think I could love ya someday, an’ if I love ya an’ ya leaves me, then that… that could break me. After my mama, I… I can’t… I can’t do that again. I ain’t strong enough.” He gripped her shoulders so tightly that she winced. “Kath’rine. Your soulmate’s gonna want ya someday. He’d be a fool not to. So ya have ta tell me when he does. If we’s doin’ this, you an’ me, then I needs ya ta promise me that ya won’t just disappear after him without sayin’ nothin’. You gots ta tell me when you’s leavin’ me.” 

She sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes went steely. “Jack. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything, and I’m not leaving you. Not ever. I don’t care who my soulmate is—you are the man I want, Jack. _You_. Not some abstract idea. Not someone the universe picked without even having considered the brave, bright, beautiful boy that you are. So, Jack Kelly, until you leave me for _your_ soulmate, there’s nothing in the world that could tear me from your side.”

His shoulders sagged in relief. “You’s one in a million, Kath’rine Plumber.” He pulled her in for a brief kiss and then pushed her away, finally having processed the last thing she said. “Wait. You thinks I’m gonna leave ya?”

She sighed. “Everyone does. It’s just a matter of time. I’ll have you for as long as I can, for as long as you let me, but once you find the girl you’re supposed to be with, then…” She shrugged, trying to affect nonchalance, but the wobble in her voice and the tears in her eyes betrayed her. “Then I’ll let you go." 

“Kath’rine,” he snapped, shaking her roughly. “I ain’t leavin’ ya. I don’t care who the world thinks I’m s’posed ta be with. We makes our own rules, you an’ me. We may be little guys fightin’ against behemoths, but ‘s long as we’s together, we’s always gonna win.” 

A tentative smile crept onto her face. “You mean that?” 

“Yeah. This soulmate stuff ain’t for us, girlie. You said the other day that you’s unconventional, right? Well, so ‘m I.”

She grinned and threw her arms around him, causing him to stagger backwards at the unexpected hug. They stayed like that for a minute, trying to calm their wild thoughts and racing hearts. 

Again, Katherine was the one to make the next move. “It’s agreed, then? We’re… we’re going for this? Soulmates be damned?”

Jack nodded firmly. “Yeah. I want you, Kath, or I don’t want no one.”

Katherine beamed. “Okay, then.” She stuck her hand into her pocket, rummaged around, and then pulled it out triumphantly, brandishing a pen. “Let’s tell our soulmates.”

Jack smiled and adjusted his cap. “Let’s.” He went to the corner of the fire escape to fish a pen out of his own jumble of art supplies. The two of them sat down next to each other on the fire escape, practically humming with anticipation. He handed Katherine a small bottle of black ink, and they took turns dipping in the nibs of their pens. He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’s sure?”

“Yes.”

“Ready?”

“Yes.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, her eyelashes brushing against his skin and making him shiver. Neither of them had ever been as ready for anything as they had been for this, and they both knew it.

Jack rolled up his sleeve, bouncing his legs in anticipation. “What do we say?”

Katherine tilted her head and thought for a moment. “The truth, I suppose.”

Jack nodded. “Okay, then. Here we go.”

They raised their pens in unison and began to write on their left forearms, Jack’s print firm and blocky, Katherine’s a rounded, flowing script. They smiled at each other as the words disappeared on their skin. It was done. They sat for a moment, love-drunk and giddy, and then, at precisely the same moment, their eyes widened in shock.

“My arm…” Jack stammered.

Katherine’s gaze flew to her own forearm, which had also begun to tingle in a way that it hadn’t for years. Her eyes raced across the words written there, just as his were scanning the delicate cursive that he hadn’t seen since 1897.

 _I found someone else_. 

They whipped back to face each other, Jack’s mouth open in shock, Katherine’s hands cupped over her nose and mouth. Their eyes flicked to each other’s arms and then to back to their own.

“It’s _you_ ,” Jack breathed. “All these years, all this time, and… it’s you. It’s always been you.” He looked stunned.

“Oh my…” Katherine gasped. “Oh, Jack…” She broke into slightly hysterical giggles and started to cry. 

He started to reach for her and then stopped short, unsure of what to do. “Kath, darlin’, baby, I…” 

She flung herself into his arms and sobbed against his shoulder. “This whole time I wanted it to be you, and I’ve been so sad that it wasn’t, and… and it _was_ , and it’s _you_ , and… oh, Jack!”

He wrapped his arms around her and moved to stroke her hair. “Shh, love, shh. I…” He swallowed. “Are you okay? Are you still sad?”

She laughed and swatted his arm. “Jack, you darling boy, I’m happier than I’ve ever been!” She tugged back a little so that she could meet his eyes. “I _love_ you, Jack Kelly, and now I get to say it.” 

He shook his head. “We’s too stubborn for our own good, you an’ me.” 

“Yes,” she said, but he could tell that she wasn’t concerned about that. “And it worked out anyway. Soulmates or not, we were meant for each other, Jack.” She stretched out a hand to cup his face in her hands. “My darling. My dear one. Heart of my heart, soul of my soul.” She smiled and leaned her forehead against his. “Jack. Jack Kelly. I am yours and you are mine. Forever. For always. For sure.” 

“For sure, Kath’rine,” he whispered, tilting his head to kiss her again. “An’ I ain’t never leavin’ ya. Not ever. I swears it.” He smiled into the next kiss and felt her smile in return. “Kath’rine.” _Kiss._ “Kath’rine.” _Kiss._ “Kath’rine!” 

He pulled back, and she made a noise of protest, her eyes still closed, her lips chasing his. He pressed a finger to her mouth. “Kath’rine.”

She reluctantly opened her eyes. “Mmm?”

“I love you.”

“So kiss me.”

He did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I hope you liked it! :)
> 
> (And now the title finally makes sense!)


End file.
